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LIFE’S  LITTLE  IRONIES 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2020  with  funding  from 
University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


https://archive.org/details/lifeslittleironi00hard_0 


LIFE’S  LITTLE  IRONIES 


i 


B  Set  of  Hales 

WITH 

SOME  COLLOQUIAL  SKETCHES 

ENTITLED 

A  FEW  CRUSTED  CHARACTERS 


BY 

THOMAS  HARDY 

AUTHOR  OF  “TESS  OF  THE  d’URBERVILLES  ” 
“A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES”  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 


Books  by 

THOMAS  HARDY 


Under  the  Greenwood  Tree.  Crown  8vo  . 
Desperate  Remedies.  Crown  8vo.  Map  . 

A  Laodicean.  Crown  8vo.  Map  .... 

Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd.  Cr.  8vo.  Map 
The  Mayor  op  Casterbridge.  Cr.  8vo.  Map 
Tess  of  the  D’Urbervilles.  Crown  8vo  . 

Two  on  a  Tower.  Crown  8vo.  Map  .  . 

A  Pair  of  Blue  Eyes.  Crown  8vo.  MaD . 

The  Woodlanders.  Crown  8vo  .... 

The  Hand  of  Ethelberta.  Cr.  8vo.  Map  . 

The  Trumpet  Major.  Crown  8vo.  Map  . 

The  Return  of  the  Native.  Cr.  8vo.  Map 

Wessex  Tales.  Crown  8vo.  Map 

Jude  the  Obscure.  Crown  8vo  .... 

The  Well-Beloved.  Crown  8vo.  Map 
Life’s  Little  Ironies.  Crown  8vo  .  .  . 

A  Group  of  Noble  Dames.  IU’d.  umo  .  . 

Fellow-Townsmen.  321110 . 

Wessex  Poems.  First  Series.  Crown  8vo  . 
Wessex  Poems.  Second  Series.  Crown  8vo,  net 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS.  N.  Y. 


Copyright,  1894,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 
Copyright,  1922,  by  Thomas  Hardy 


C-A 


CONTENTS 


PASS 

THE  SON’S  VETO . 3 

FOR  CONSCIENCE’  SAKE  . 22 

A  TRAGEDY  OF  TWO  AMBITIONS . 44 

ON  THE  WESTERN  CIRCUIT . 76 

TO  PLEASE  HIS  WIFE . 107 

THE  MELANCHOLY  HUSSAR  OF  THE  GERMAN  LEGION  .  .  129 

THE  FIDDLER  OF  THE  REELS . 152 

A  TRADITION  OF  1804  .  . .  175 

A  FEW  CRUSTED  CHARACTERS  .  .  .  .  . . 187 

TONY  KYTES,  THE  ARCH-DECEIVER . 193 

THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  HARDCOMES . 205 

THE  SUPERSTITIOUS  MAN’S  STORY . 218 

ANDREY  SATCHEL  AND  THE  PARSON  AND  CLERK  .  223 
OLD  ANDREY’S  EXPERIENCE  AS  A  MUSICIAN  .  .  .  284 

ABSENT-MINDEDNESS  IN  A  PARISH  CHOIR  ....  238 

THE  WINTERS  AND  THE  PALMLEYS . 243 

INCIDENT  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  MR.  GEORGE  CROOK- 

HILL  . 254 

NETTY  SARGENT’S  COPYHOLD . 260 


\ 

/ 


Oo 

<*3 


THE  SON’S  VETO 


I 

To  the  eyes  of  a  man  viewing  it  from  behind,  the 
nut-brown  hair  was  a  wonder  and  a  mystery.  Under 
the  black  beaver  hat,  surmounted  by  its  tuft  of  black 
feathers,  the  long  locks,  braided  and  twisted  and  coiled 
like  the  rushes  of  a  basket,  composed  a  rare,  if  some¬ 
what  barbaric,  example  of  ingenious  art.  One  could 
understand  such  weavings  and  coilings  being  wrought 
to  last  intact  for  a  year,  or  even  a  calendar  month  ; 
but  that  they  should  be  all  demolished  regularly  at 
bedtime,  after  a  single  day  of  permanence,  seemed  a 
reckless  waste  of  successful  fabrication. 

And  she  had  done  it  all  herself,  poor  thing.  She 
had  no  maid,  and  it  was  almost  the  only  accomplish¬ 
ment  she  could  boast  of.  Hence  the  unstinted  pains. 

She  was  a  young  invalid  lady — not  so  very  much 
of  an  invalid— sitting  in  a  wheeled  chair,  which  had 
been  pulled  up  in  the  front  part  of  a  green  enclosure, 
close  to  a  band-stand,  where  a  concert  was  going  on, 
during  a  warm  June  afternoon.  It  had  place  in  one 
of  the  minor  parks  or  private  gardens  that  are  to  be 
found  in  the  suburbs  of  London,  and  was  the  effort  of 
a  local  association  to  raise  money  for  some  charity. 
There  are  worlds  within  worlds  in  the  great  city,  and 
though  nobody  outside  the  immediate  district  had 
ever  heard  of  the  charity,  or  the  band,  or  the  garden, 


I 


4  life’s  little  ironies 

the  enclosure  was  filled  with  an  interested  audience 
sufficiently  informed  on  all  these. 

As  the  strains  proceeded  many  of  the  listeners  ob¬ 
served  the  chaired  lady,  whose  back  hair,  by  reason 
of  her  prominent  position,  so  challenged  inspection. 
Her  face  was  not  easily  discernible,  but  the  aforesaid 
cunning  tress-weavings,  the  white  ear  and  poll,  and 
the  curve  of  a  cheek  which  was  neither  flaccid  nor 
sallow,  were  signals  that  led  to  the  expectation  of 
good  beauty  in  front.  Such  expectations  are  not  in¬ 
frequently  disappointed  as  soon  as  the  disclosure 
comes  ;  and  in  the  present  case,  when  the  lady,  by 
a  turn  of  the  head,  at  length  revealed  herself,  she  was 
not  so  handsome  as  the  people  behind  her  had  sup¬ 
posed,  and  even  hoped — they  did  not  know  why. 

For  one  thing  (alas  !  the  commonness  of  this  com¬ 
plaint),  she  was  less  young  than  they  had  fancied  her 
to  be.  Yet  attractive  her  face  unquestionably  was, 
and  not  at  all  sickly.  The  revelation  of  its  details 
came  each  time  she  turned  to  talk  to  a  boy  of  twelve 
or  thirteen  who  stood  beside  her,  and  the  shape  of 
whose  hat  and  jacket  implied  that  he  belonged  to  a 
well-known  public  school.  The  immediate  by-stand- 
ers  could  hear  that  he  called  her  “  Mother.” 

When  the  end  of  the  programme  was  reached,  and 
the  audience  withdrew,  many  chose  to  find  their  way 
out  by  passing  at  her  elbow.  Almost  all  turned  their 
heads  to  take  a  full  and  near  look  at  the  interesting 
woman,  who  remained  stationary  in  the  chair  till  the 
way  should  be  clear  enough  for  her  to  be  wheeled 
out  without  obstruction.  As  if  she  expected  their 
glances,  and  did  not  mind  gratifying  their  curiosity, 
she  met  the  eyes  of  several  of  her  observers  by  lift¬ 
ing  her  own,  showing  these  to  be  soft,  brown,  and  af¬ 
fectionate  orbs,  a  little  plaintive  in  their  regard. 

She  was  conducted  out  of  the  garden,  and  passed 


THE  SON’S  VETO 


5 


along  the  pavement  till  she  disappeared  from  view,  the 
school-boy  walking  beside  her.  To  inquiries  made  by 
some  persons  who  watched  her  away,  the  answer  came 
that  she  was  the  second  wife  of  the  incumbent  of  a 
neighboring  parish,  and  that  she  was  lame.  She  was 
generally  believed  to  be  a  woman  with  a  story — an  in¬ 
nocent  one,  but  a  story  of  some  sort  or  other. 

In  conversing  with  her  on  their  way  home  the  boy 
who  walked  at  her  elbow  said  that  he  hoped  his  father 
had  not  missed  them. 

“  He  have  been  so  comfortable  these  last  few  hours 
that  I  am  sure  he  cannot  have  missed  us,”  she  replied. 

“  Has ,  dear  mother — not  have  /”  exclaimed  the  pub¬ 
lic-school  boy,  with  an  impatient  fastidiousness  that 
was  almost  harsh.  “  Surely  you  know  that  by  this 
time  !” 

His  mother  hastily  adopted  the  correction,  and  did 
not  resent  his  making  it,  or  retaliate,  as  she  might 
well  have  done,  by  bidding  him  to  wipe  that  crumby 
mouth  of  his,  whose  condition  had  been  caused  by  sur¬ 
reptitious  attempts  to  eat  a  piece  of  cake  without  tak¬ 
ing  it  out  of  the  pocket  wherein  it  lay  concealed. 
After  this  the  pretty  woman  and  the  boy  went  on¬ 
ward  in  silence. 

That  question  of  grammar  bore  upon  her  history, 
and  she  fell  into  reverie,  of  a  somewhat  sad  kind  to 
all  appearance.  It  might  have  been  assumed  that  she 
was  wondering  if  she  had  done  wisely  in  shaping  her 
life  as  she  had  shaped  it,  to  bring  out  such  a  result  as 
this. 

In  a  remote  nook  in  North  Wessex,  forty  miles 
from  London,  near  the  thriving  county-town  of  Ald- 
brickham,  there  stood  a  pretty  village  with  its  church 
and  parsonage,  which  she  knew  well  enough,  but  her 
son  had  never  seen.  It  was  her  native  village,  Gay- 
mead,  and  the  first  event  bearing  upon  her  present  sit- 


6 


life’s  little  ironies 


uation  had  occurred  at  that  place  when  she  was  only 
a  girl  of  nineteen. 

How  well  she  remembered  it,  that  first  act  in  her  lit¬ 
tle  tragi-comedy,  the  death  of  her  reverend  husband’s 
first  wife.  It  happened  on  a  spring  evening,  and  she 
who  now  and  for  many  years  had  filled  that  first  wife’s 
place  was  then  parlor-maid  in  the  parson’s  house. 

When  everything  had  been  done  that  could  be 
done,  and  the  death  was  announced,  she  had  gone  out 
in  the  dusk  to  visit  her  parents,  who  were  living 
in  the  same  village,  to  tell  them  the  sad  news.  As 
she  opened  the  white  swing-gate  and  looked  towards 
the  trees  which  rose  westward,  shutting  out  the  pale 
light  of  the  evening  sky,  she  discerned,  without  much 
surprise,  the  figure  of  a  man  standing  in  the  hedge, 
though  she  roguishly  exclaimed,  as  a  matter  of  form, 
“  Oh,  Sam,  how  you  frightened  me  !” 

He  was  a  young  gardener  of  her  acquaintance.  She 
told  him  the  particulars  of  the  late  event,  and  they 
stood  silent,  these  two  young  people,  in  that  elevated, 
calmly  philosophic  mind  which  is  engendered  when  a 
tragedy  has  happened  close  at  hand,  and  has  not  hap¬ 
pened  to  the  philosophers  themselves.  But  it  had  its 
bearings  upon  their  relations. 

“And  will  you  stay  on  now  at  the  Vicarage,  just 
the  same  ?”  asked  he. 

She  had  hardly  thought  of  that.  “  Oh  yes — I  sup¬ 
pose,”  she  said.  “  Everything  will  be  just  as  usual,  I 
imagine.” 

He  walked  beside  her  towards  her  mother’s.  Pres¬ 
ently  his  arm  stole  round  her  waist.  She  gently  re¬ 
moved  it  ;  but  he  placed  it  there  again,  and  she 
yielded  the  point.  “You  see,  dear  Sophy,  you  don’t 
know  that  you’ll  stay  on  ;  you  may  want  a  home  ;  and 
I  shall  be  ready  to  offer  one  some  day,  though  I  may 
not  be  ready  just  yet.” 


THE  SON’S  VETO 


“  Why,  Sam,  how  can  you  be  so  fast  ?  I've  never 
even  said  I  liked  ’ee  ;  and  it  is  all  your  own  doing, 
coming  after  me.” 

“  Still,  it  is  nonsense  to  say  I  am  not  to  have  a  try  at 
you,  like  the  rest.”  He  stooped  to  kiss  her  a  farewell, 
for  they  had  reached  her  mother’s  door. 

“  No,  Sam  ;  you  sha’n’t  !”  she  cried,  putting  her 
hand  over  his  mouth.  “  You  ought  to  be  more  serious 
on  such  a  night  as  this.”  And  she  bade  him  adieu 
without  allowing  him  to  kiss  her  or  to  come  indoors. 

The  vicar  just  left  a  widower  was  at  this  time  a 
man  about  forty  years  of  age,  of  good  family,  and 
childless.  He  had  led  a  secluded  existence  in  this  col¬ 
lege  living,  partly  because  there  were  no  resident  land- 
owners  ;  and  his  loss  now  intensified  his  habit  of  with¬ 
drawal  from  outward  observation.  He  was  still  less 
seen  than  heretofore,  kept  himself  still  less  in  time 
with  the  rhythm  and  racket  of  the  movements  called 
progress  in  the  world  without.  For  many  months 
after  his  wife’s  decease  the  economy  of  his  household 
remained  as  before  ;  the  cook,  the  house-maid,  the  par¬ 
lor-maid,  and  the  man  out-of-doors  performed  their 
duties  or  left  them  undone,  just  as  nature  prompted 
them — the  vicar  knew  not  which.  It  was  then  repre¬ 
sented  to  him  that  his  servants  seemed  to  have  noth¬ 
ing  to  do  in  his  small  family  of  one.  He  was  struck 
with  the  truth  of  this  representation,  and  decided  to 
cut  down  his  establishment.  But  he  was  forestalled 
by  Sophy,  the  parlor-maid,  who  said  one  evening  that 
she  wished  to  leave  him. 

“  And  why  ?”  said  the  parson. 

“  Sam  Hobson  has  asked  me  to  marry  him,  sir.” 

“  Well — do  you  want  to  marry  ?” 

“Not  much.  But  it  would  be  a  home  for  me.  And 
we  have  heard  that  one  of  us  will  have  to  leave.” 

A  day  or  two  after  she  said  :  “  I  don’t  want  to 


8 


LIFE’S  little  ironies 


leave  just  yet,  sir,  if  you  don’t  wish  it.  Sam  and  I 
have  quarrelled.” 

He  looked  up  at  her.  He  had  hardly  ever  observed 
her  before,  though  he  had  been  frequently  conscious 
of  her  soft  presence  in  the  room.  What  a  kitten-like, 
flexuous,  tender  creature  she  was  !  She  was  the  only 
one  of  the  servants  with  whom  he  came  into  immedi¬ 
ate  and  continuous  relation.  What  should  he  do  if 
Sophy  were  gone  ? 

Sophy  did  not  go,  but  one  of  the  others  did,  and 
things  proceeded  quietly  again. 

When  Mr.  Twycott,  the  vicar,  was  ill,  Sophy 
brought  up  his  meals  to  him,  and  she  had  no  sooner 
left  the  room  one  day  than  he  heard  a  noise  on  the 
stairs.  She  had  slipped  down  with  the  tray,  and  so 
twisted  her  foot  that  she  could  not  stand.  The  vil¬ 
lage  surgeon  was  called  in  ;  the  vicar  got  better,  but 
Sophy  was  incapacitated  for  a  long  time  ;  and  she  was 
informed  that  she  must  never  again  walk  much  or  en¬ 
gage  in  any  occupation  which  required  her  to  stand 
long  on  her  feet.  As  soon  as  she  was  comparatively 
well  she  spoke  to  him  alone.  Since  she  was  forbidden 
to  walk  and  bustle  about,  and,  indeed,  could  not  do 
so,  it  became  her  duty  to  leave.  She  could  very  well 
work  at  something  sitting  down,  and  she  had  an  aunt 
a  seamstress. 

The  parson  had  been  very  greatly  moved  by  what 
she  had  suffered  on  his  account,  and  he  exclaimed, 
“No,  Sophy  ;  lame  or  not  lame,  I  cannot  let  you  go. 
You  must  never  leave  me  again.” 

He  came  close  to  her,  and,  though  she  could  never 
exactly  tell  how  it  happened,  she  became  conscious  of 
his  lips  upon  her  cheek.  He  then  asked  her  to  marry 
him.  Sophy  did  not  exactly  love  him,  but  she  had  a 
respect  for  him  which  almost  amounted  to  veneration. 
Even  if  she  had  wished  to  get  away  from  him  she  hard- 


THE  SON’S  VETO 


9 


ly  dared  refuse  a  personage  so  reverend  and  august  in 
her  eyes,  and  she  assented  forthwith  to  be  his  wife. 

Thus  it  happened  that  one  fine  morning,  wThen  the 
doors  of  the  church  were  naturally  open  for  ventila¬ 
tion,  and  the  singing  birds  fluttered  in  and  alighted 
on  the  tie-beams  of  the  roof,  there  was  a  marriage- 
service  at  the  communion  rails  which  hardly  a  soul 
knew  of.  The  parson  and  a  neighboring  curate  had 
entered  at  one  door,  and  Sophy  at  another,  followed  by 
two  necessary  persons,  whereupon  in  a  short  time  there 
emerged  a  newly-made  husband  and  wife. 

Mr.  Twycott  knew  perfectly  well  that  he  had  com¬ 
mitted  social  suicide  by  this  step,  despite  Sophy’s 
spotless  character,  and  he  had  taken  his  measures  ac¬ 
cordingly.  An  exchange  of  livings  had  been  arranged 
with  an  acquaintance  who  was  incumbent  of  a  church 
in  the  south  of  London,  and  as  soon  as  possible  the 
couple  removed  thither,  abandoning  their  pretty  coun¬ 
try  home  with  trees  and  shrubs  and  glebe  for  a  nar¬ 
row,  dusty  house  in  a  long,  straight  street,  and  their 
fine  peal  of  bells  for  the  wretchedest  one-tongued 
clangor  that  ever  tortured  mortal  ears.  It  was  all  on 
her  account.  They  were,  however,  away  from  every  one 
who  had  known  her  former  position,  and  also  under 
less  observation  from  without  than  they  would  have 
had  to  put  up  with  in  any  country  parish. 

Sophy  the  woman  was  as  charming  a  partner  as  a 
man  could  possess,  though  Sophy  the  lady  had  her 
deficiencies.  She  showed  a  natural  aptitude  for  little 
domestic  refinements,  so  far  as  related  to  things  and 
manners  ;  but  in  what  is  called  culture  she  was  less 
intuitive.  She  had  now  been  married  more  than  four¬ 
teen  years,  and  her  husband  had  taken  much  trouble 
with  her  education  ;  but  she  still  held  confused  ideas 
on  the  use  of  “  was  ”  and  “  were,”  which  did  not  beget  a 
respect  for  her  among  the  few  acquaintances  she  made. 


10 


life’s  little  ironies 


Her  great  grief  in  this  relation  was  that  her  only  child, 
on  whose  education  no  expense  had  been  or  would  be 
spared,  was  now  old  enough  to  perceive  these  deficien¬ 
cies  in  his  mother,  and  not  only  to  see  them  but  to  feel 
irritated  at  their  existence. 

Thus  she  lived  on  in  the  city,  and  wasted  hours  in 
braiding  her  beautiful  hair,  till  her  once  apple  cheeks 
waned  to  pink  of  the  very  faintest.  Her  foot  had 
never  regained  its  natural  strength  after  the  accident, 
and  she  was  mostly  obliged  to  avoid  walking  alto¬ 
gether.  Her  husband  had  grown  to  like  London  for 
its  freedom  and  its  domestic  privacy  ;  but  he  was 
twenty  years  his  Sophy’s  senior,  and  had  latterly  been 
seized  with  a  serious  illness.  On  this  day,  however, 
he  had  seemed  to  be  well  enough  to  justify  her  accom¬ 
panying  her  son  Randolph  to  the  concert. 


II 

The  next  time  we  get  a  glimpse  of  her  is  when  she 
appears  in  the  mournful  attire  of  a  widow. 

Mr.  Twycott  had  never  rallied,  and  now  lay  in  a 
well-packed  cemetery  to  the  south  of  the  great  city, 
where,  if  all  the  dead  it  contained  had  stood  erect  and 
alive,  not  one  would  have  known  him  or  recognized 
his  name.  The  boy  had  dutifully  followed  him  to  the 
grave,  and  was  now  again  at  school. 

Throughout  these  changes  Sophy  had  been  treated 
like  the  child  she  was  in  nature  though  not  in  years. 
She  was  left  with  no  control  over  anything  that  had 
been  her  husband’s  beyond  her  modest  personal  in¬ 
come.  In  his  anxiety  lest  her  inexperience  should  be 
overreached  he  had  safeguarded  with  trustees  all  he 
possibly  could.  The  completion  of  the  boy’s  course 


THE  SON’S  VETO 


11 


at  the  public  school,  to  be  followed  in  due  time  by 
Oxford  and  ordination,  had  been  all  previsioned  and 
arranged,  and  she  really  had  nothing  to  occupy  her 
in  the  world  but  to  eat  and  drink,  and  make  a  business 
of  indolence,  and  go  on  weaving  and  coiling  the  nut- 
brown  hair,  merely  keeping  a  home  open  for  the  son 
whenever  he  came  to  her  during  vacations. 

Foreseeing  his  probable  decease  long  years  before 
her,  her  husband  in  his  lifetime  had  purchased  for  her 
use  a  semi-detached  villa  in  the  same  long,  straight 
road  whereon  the  church  and  parsonage  faced,  which 
was  to  be  hers  as  long  as  she  chose  to  live  in  it.  Here 
she  now  resided,  looking  out  upon  the  fragment  of 
lawn  in  front,  and  through  the  railings  at  the  ever-flow¬ 
ing  traffic  ;  or,  bending  forward  over  the  window-sill 
on  the  first  floor,  stretching  her  eyes  far  up  and  down 
the  vista  of  sooty  trees,  hazy  air,  and  drab  house 
fa§ades,  along  which  echoed  the  noises  common  to  a 
suburban  main  thoroughfare. 

Somehow,  her  boy,  with  his  aristocratic  school- 
knowledge,  his  grammars,  and  his  aversions,  was  los¬ 
ing  those  wide  infantine  sympathies,  extending  as  far 
as  to  the  sun  and  moon  themselves,  with  which  he,  like 
other  children,  had  been  born,  and  which  his  mother, 
a  child  of  nature  herself,  had  loved  in  him  ;  he  was 
reducing  their  compass  to  a  population  of  a  few  thou¬ 
sand  wealthy  and  titled  people,  the  mere  veneer  of  a 
thousand  million  or  so  of  others  who  did  not  interest 
him  at  all.  He  drifted  further  and  further  away  from 
her.  Sophy’s  milieu  being  a  suburb  of  minor  trades¬ 
men  and  under-clerks,  and  her  almost  only  compan¬ 
ions  the  two  servants  of  her  own  house,  it  was  not 
surprising  that  after  her  husband’s  death  she  soon  lost 
the  little  artificial  tastes  she  had  acquired  from  him, 
and  became — in  her  son’s  eyes — a  mother  whose  mis¬ 
takes  and  origin  it  was  his  painful  lot  as  a  gentleman 


12 


life’s  little  ironies 


to  blush  for.  As  yet  he  was  far  from  being  man 
enough — if  he  ever  would  be  —  to  rate  these  sins  of 
hers  at  their  true  infinitesimal  value  beside  the  yearn¬ 
ing  fondness  that  welled  up  and  remained  penned  in 
her  heart  till  it  should  be  more  fully  accepted  by  him, 
or  by  some  other  person  or  thing.  If  he  had  lived  at 
home  with  her  he  would  have  had  all  of  it ;  but  he 
seemed  to  require  so  very  little  in  present  circum¬ 
stances,  and  it  remained  stored. 

Her  life  became  insupportably  dreary  ;  she  could 
not  take  walks,  and  had  no  interest  in  going  for 
drives,  or,  indeed,  in  travelling  anywhere.  Nearly 
two  years  passed  without  an  event,  and  still  she  looked 
on  that  suburban  road,  thinking  of  the  village  in 
which  she  had  been  born,  and  whither  she  would  have 
gone  back — oh,  how  gladly ! — even  to  work  in  the  fields. 

Taking  no  exercise,  she  often  could  not  sleep,  and 
would  rise  in  the  night  or  early  morning  and  look  out 
upon  the  then  vacant  thoroughfare,  where  the  lamps 
stood  like  sentinels  waiting  for  some  procession  to  go 
by.  An  approximation  to  such  a  procession  wras  in¬ 
deed  made  every  early  morning  about  one  o’clock, 
when  the  country  vehicles  passed  up  with  loads  of 
vegetables  for  Covent  Garden  market.  She  often  saw 
them  creeping  along  at  this  silent  and  dusky  hour — 
wagon  after  wagon,  bearing  green  bastions  of  cab¬ 
bages  nodding  to  their  fall,  yet  never  falling;  walls  of 
baskets  enclosing  masses  of  beans  and  pease;  pyramids 
of  snow-white  turnips,  swaying  howdahs  of  mixed 
produce  —  creeping  along  behind  aged  night-horses, 
who  seemed  ever  patiently  wondering  between  their 
hollow  coughs  why  they  had  always  to  work  at  that 
still  hour  when  all  other  sentient  creatures  were  priv¬ 
ileged  to  rest.  Wrapped  in  a  cloak,  it  was  soothing  to 
watch  and  sympathize  with  them  when  depression  and 
nervousness  hindered  sleep,  and  to  see  how  the  fresh 


THE  SON’S  VETO 


18 


green-stuff  brightened  to  life  as  it  came  opposite  the 
lamp,  and  how  the  sweating  animals  steamed  and 
shone  with  their  miles  of  travel. 

They  had  an  interest,  almost  a  charm,  for  Sophy, 
these  semi-rural  people  and  vehicles  moving  in  an 
urban  atmosphere,  leading  a  life  quite  distinct  from 
that  of  the  daytime  toilers  on  the  same  road.  One 
morning  a  man  who  accompanied  a  wagon  -  load  of  po¬ 
tatoes  gazed  rather  hard  at  the  house  fronts  as  he 
passed,  and  with  a  curious  emotion  she  thought  his 
form  was  familiar  to  her.  She  looked  out  for  him 
again.  His  being  an  old-fashioned  conveyance  with 
a  yellow  front,  it  was  easily  recognizable,  and  on  the 
third  night  after  she  saw  it  a  second  time.  The  man 
alongside  was,  as  she  had  fancied,  Sam  Hobson,  form¬ 
erly  gardener  at  Gaymead,  who  would  at  one  time 
have  married  her. 

She  had  occasionally  thought  of  him,  and  -wondered 
if  life  in  a  cottage  with  him  would  not  have  been  a 
happier  lot  than  the  life  she  had  accepted.  She  had 
not  thought  of  him  passionately,  but  her  now  dismal 
situation  lent  an  interest  to  his  resurrection — a  tender 
interest  which  it  is  impossible  to  exaggerate.  She" 
went  back  to  bed,  and  began  thinking.  When  did 
these  market-gardeners,  who  travelled  up  to  town  so 
regularly  at  one  or  two  in  the  morning,  come  back? 
She  dimly  recollected  seeing  their  empty  wagons, 
hardly  noticeable  among  the  ordinary  day-traffic,  pass¬ 
ing  down  at  some  hour  before  noon. 

It  was  only  April,  but  that  morning,  after  breakfast, 
she  had  the  window  opened,  and  sat  looking  out,  the 
feeble  sun  shining  full  upon  her.  She  affected  to 
sew,  but  her  eyes  never  left  the  street.  Between  ten 
and  eleven  the  desired  wagon,  now  unladen,  reap¬ 
peared  on  its  return  journey.  But  Sam  was  not  look¬ 
ing  round  him  then,  and  drove  on  in  a  reverie. 


B 


14 


life’s  little  ironies 


“Sam  !”  cried  she. 

Turning  with  a  start,  his  face  lighted  up.  He  called 
to  him  a  little  boy  to  hold  the  horse,  alighted,  and 
came  and  stood  under  her  window. 

“I  can’t  come  down  easily,  Sam,  or  I  would!”  she 
said.  “  Did  you  know  I  lived  here  ?” 

“  Well,  Mrs.  Twycott,  I  knew  you  lived  along  here 
somewhere.  I  have  often  looked  out  for  ’ee.” 

He  briefly  explained  his  own  presence  on  the  scene. 
He  had  long  since  given  up  his  gardening  in  the  vil¬ 
lage  near  Aldbrickkam,  and  was  now  manager  at  a 
market-gardener’s  on  the  south  side  of  London,  it  be¬ 
ing  part  of  his  duty  to  go  up  to  Covent  Garden  with 
wagon-loads  of  produce  two  or  three  times  a  week. 
In  answer  to  her  curious  inquiry,  he  admitted  that  he 
had  come  to  this  particular  district  because  he  had 
seen  in  the  Aldbrickham  paper  a  year  or  two  before 
the  announcement  of  the  death  in  South  London  of 
the  aforetime  vicar  of  Gaymead,  which  had  revived 
an  interest  in  her  dwelling-place  that  he  could  not  ex¬ 
tinguish,  leading  him  to  hover  about  the  locality  till 
his  present  post  had  been  secured. 

They  spoke  of  their  native  village  in  dear  old  North 
Wessex,  the  spots  in  which  they  had  played  together 
as  children.  She  tried  to  feel  that  she  was  a  dignified 
personage  now,  that  she  must  not  be  too  confidential 
with  Sam.  But  she  could  not  keep  it  up,  and  the  tears 
hanging  in  her  eyes  were  indicated  in  her  voice. 

“You  are  not  happy,  Mrs.  Twycott,  I’m  afraid,”  he 
said. 

“  Oh,  of  course  not !  I  lost  my  husband  only  the 
year  before  last.” 

“Ah  !  I  meant  in  another  way.  You’d  like  to  be 
home  again  ?” 

“This  is  my  home  —  for  life.  The  house  belongs 
to  me.  But  I  understand”--  She  let  it  out  then. 


THE  SON’S  VETO 


15 


“Yes,  Sam.  I  long  for  home— our  home  !  I  should 
like  to  be  there,  and  never  leave  it,  and  die  there.” 
But  she  remembered  herself.  “That’s  only  a  mo¬ 
mentary  feeling.  I  have  a  son,  you  know,  a  dear  boy. 
He’s  at  school  now.” 

“Somewhere  handy,  I  suppose?  I  see  there’s  lots 
on  ’em  along  this  road.” 

“  Oh  no  !  Not  in  one  of  these  wretched  holes  !  At 
a  public  school — one  of  the  most  distinguished  in  Eng¬ 
land.” 

“  Chok  it  all !  of  course  !  I  forget,  ma’am,  that 
you’ve  been  a  lady  for  so  many  years.” 

“No,  I  am  not  a  lady,”  she  said,  sadly.  “I  never 
shall  be.  But  he’s  a  gentleman,  and  that — makes  it — 
oh,  how  difficult  for  me !” 


Ill 

The  acquaintance  thus  oddly  reopened  proceeded 
apace.  She  often  looked  out  to  get  a  few  words  with 
him,  by  night  or  by  day.  Her  sorrow  was  that  she 
could  not  accompany  her  one  old  friend  on  foot  a  lit¬ 
tle  way,  and  talk  more  freely  than  she  could  do  while 
he  paused  before  the  house.  One  night,  at  the  begin¬ 
ning  of  June,  when  she  was  again  on  the  watch  after 
an  absence  of  some  days  from  the  window,  he  entered 
the  gate  and  said,  softly,  “  Now,  wouldn’t  some  air  do 
you  good  ?  I’ve  only  half  a  load  this  morning.  Why 
not  ride  up  to  Covent  Garden  with  me  ?  There’s  a 
nice  seat  on  the  cabbages,  where  I’ve  spread  a  sack. 
You  can  be  home  again  in  a  cab  before  anybody  is  up.” 

She  refused  at  first,  and  then,  trembling  with  ex¬ 
citement,  hastily  finished  her  dressing,  and  wrapped 
herself  up  in  cloak  and  veil,  afterwards  sidling  down- 


16 


life’s  little  ironies 


stairs  by  the  aid  of  the  handrail,  in  a  way  she  could 
adopt  on  an  emergency.  When  she  had  opened  the 
door  she  found  Sam  on  the  step,  and  he  lifted  her 
bodily  on  his  strong  arm  across  the  little  forecourt 
into  his  vehicle.  Not  a  soul  was  visible  or  audible  in 
the  infinite  length  of  the  straight,  flat  highway,  with 
its  ever-waiting  lamps  converging  to  points  in  each 
direction.  The  air  was  fresh  as  country  air  at  this 
hour,  and  the  stars  shone,  except  to  the  north-eastward, 
where  there  was  a  whitish  light  —  the  dawn.  Sam 
carefully  placed  her  in  the  seat  and  drove  on. 

They  talked  as  they  had  talked  in  old  days,  Sam 
pulling  himself  up  now  and  then,  when  he  thought 
himself  too  familiar.  More  than  once  she  said  with 
misgiving  that  she  wondered  if  she  ought  to  have  in¬ 
dulged  in  the  freak.  “  But  I  am  so  lonely  in  my 
house,”  she  added,  “  and  this  makes  me  so  happy!” 

“You  must  come  again,  dear  Mrs.  Twycott.  There 
is  no  time  o’  day  for  taking  the  air  like  this.” 

It  grew  lighter  and  lighter.  The  sparrows  became 
busy  in  the  streets,  and  the  city  waxed  denser  around 
them.  When  they  approached  the  river  it  was  day, 
and  on  the  bridge  they  beheld  the  full  blaze  of  morn¬ 
ing  sunlight  in  the  direction  of  St.  Paul’s,  the  river 
glistening  towards  it,  and  not  a  craft  stirring. 

Near  Covent  Garden  he  put  her  into  a  cab,  and  they 
parted,  looking  into  each  other’s  faces  like  the  very 
old  friends  they  were.  She  reached  home  without  ad¬ 
venture,  limped  to  the  door,  and  let  herself  in  with 
her  latch-key  unseen. 

The  air  and  Sam’s  presence  had  revived  her ;  her 
cheeks  were  quite  pink — almost  beautiful.  She  had 
something  to  live  for  in  addition  to  her  son.  A  wom¬ 
an  of  pure  instincts,  she  knew  there  had  been  nothing 
really  wrong  in  the  journey,  but  supposed  it  conven¬ 
tionally  to  be  very  wrong  indeed. 


THE  SON’S  VETO 


r/ 


Soon,  however,  she  gave  way  to  the  temptation  of 
going  with  him  again,  and  on  this  occasion  their  con¬ 
versation  was  distinctly  tender,  and  Sam  said  he  never 
should  forget  her,  notwithstanding  that  she  had  served 
him  rather  badly  at  one  time.  After  much  hesitation 
he  told  her  of  a  plan  it  was  in  his  power  to  carry 
out,  and  one  he  should  like  to  take  in  hand,  since  he 
did  not  care  for  London  work  ;  it  was  to  set  up  as 
a  master  greengrocer  down  at  Aldbrickham,  the 
county-town  of  their  native  place.  He  knew  of  an 
opening — a  shop  kept  by  aged  people  who  wished  to 
retire. 

“  And  why  don’t  you  do  it,  then,  Sam  ?”  she  asked, 
with  a  slight  heart-sinking. 

“  Because  I’m  not  sure  if — you’d  join  me.  I  know 
you  wouldn’t — couldn’t !  Such  a  lady  as  ye’ve  been 
so  long,  you  couldn’t  be  a  wife  to  a  man  like  me.” 

“I  hardly  suppose  I  could  !”  she  assented,  also 
frightened  at  the  idea. 

“  If  you  could,”  he  said,  eagerly,  “  you’d  on’y  have 
to  sit  in  the  back  parlor  and  look  through  the  glass 
partition  when  I  was  away  sometimes — just  to  keep 
an  eye  on  things.  The  lameness  wouldn’t  hinder 
that.  I’d  keep  you  as  genteel  as  ever  I  could,  dear 
Sophy — if  I  might  think  of  it,”  he  pleaded. 

“Sam,  I’ll  be  frank,”  she  said,  putting  her  hand  on 
his.  “  If  it  were  only  myself  I  would  do  it,  and 
gladly,  though  everything  I  possess  would  be  lost  to 
me  by  marrying  again.” 

“  I  don’t  mind  that.  It’s  more  independent.” 

“That’s  good  of  you,  dear,  dear  Sam.  But  there’s 
something  else.  I  have  a  son.  I  almost  fancy  when 
I  am  miserable  sometimes  that  he  is  not  really  mine, 
but  one  I  hold  in  trust  for  my  late  husband.  He 
seems  to  belong  so  little  to  me  personally,  so  entirely 
to  his  dead  father.  He  is  so  much  educated  and  I  so 
2 


18 


life’s  little  ironies 

little  that  I  do  not  feel  dignified  enough  to  be  his 
mother.  Well,  he  would  have  to  be  told.” 

“Yes.  Unquestionably.”  Sam  saw  her  thought 
and  her  fear.  “  Still,  you  can  do  as  you  like,  Sophy 
— Mrs.  Twycott,”  he  added.  “It  is  not  you  who  are 
the  child,  but  he.” 

“  Ah,  you  don’t  know  !  Sam,  if  I  could,  I  would 
marry  you,  some  day.  But  you  must  wait  awhile,  and 
let  me  think.” 

It  was  enough  for  him,  and  he  was  blithe  at  their 
parting.  Not  so  she.  To  tell  Randolph  seemed  im¬ 
possible.  She  could  wait  till  he  had  gone  up  to  Ox¬ 
ford,  when  what  she  did  would  affect  his  life  but  little. 
But  would  he  ever  tolerate  the  idea?  And  if  not, 
could  she  defy  him  ? 

She  had  not  told  him  a  word  when  the  yearly 
cricket-match  came  on  at  Lord’s  between  the  public 
schools,  though  Sam  had  already  gone  back  to  Ald- 
brickham.  Mrs.  Twycott  felt  stronger  than  usual. 
She  went  to  the  match  with  Randolph,  and  was  able 
to  leave  her  chair  and  walk  about  occasionally.  The 
bright  idea  occurred  to  her  that  she  could  casually 
broach  the  subject  while  moving  round  among  the 
spectators,  when  the  boy’s  spirits  were  high  with  in¬ 
terest  in  the  game,  and  he  would  weigh  domestic 
matters  as  feathers  in  the  scale  beside  the  day’s  vic¬ 
tory.  They  promenaded  under  the  lurid  July  sun, 
this  pair,  so  wide  apart,  yet  so  near,  and  Sophy  saw 
the  large  proportion  of  boys  like  her  own,  in  their 
broad  white  collars  and  dwarf  hats,  and  all  around  the 
rows  of  great  coaches  under  which  was  jumbled  the 
debris  of  luxurious  luncheons — bones,  pie-crusts,  cham¬ 
pagne-bottles,  glasses,  plates,  napkins,  and  the  family 
silver  ;  while  on  the  coaches  sat  the  proud  fathers  and 
mothers  ;  but  never  a  poor  mother  like  her.  If  Ran¬ 
dolph  had  not  appertained  to  these,  had  not  centred 


THE  SON’S  VETO 


19 


all  his  interests  in  them,  had  not  cared  exclusively  for 
the  class  they  belonged  to,  how  happy  would  things 
have  been  !  A  great  huzza  at  some  small  performance 
with  the  bat  burst  from  the  multitude  of  relatives, 
and  Randolph  jumped  wildly  into  the  air  to  see  what 
had  happened.  Sophy  fetched  up  the  sentence  that 
had  been  already  shaped;  but  she  could  not  get  it 
out.  The  occasion  was,  perhaps,  an  inopportune  one. 
The  contrast  between  her  story  and  the  display  of 
fashion  to  which  Randolph  had  grown  to  regard  him¬ 
self  as  akin  would  be  fatal.  She  awaited  a  better 
time. 

It  was  on  an  evening  when  they  were  alone  in  their 
plain  suburban  residence,  where  life  was  not  blue  but 
brown,  that  she  ultimately  broke  silence,  qualifying 
her  announcement  of  a  probable  second  marriage  by 
assuring  him  that  it  would  not  take  place  for  a  long 
time  to  come,  when  he  would  be  living  quite  inde¬ 
pendently  of  her. 

The  boy  thought  the  idea  a  very  reasonable  one, 
and  asked  if  she  had  chosen  anybody.  She  hesitated; 
and  he  seemed  to  have  a  misgiving.  He  hoped  his 
step-father  would  be  a  gentleman,  he  said. 

“Not  what  you  call  a  gentleman,”  she  answered, 
timidly.  “  He’ll  be  much  as  I  was  before  I  knew  your 
father;”  and  by  degrees  she  acquainted  him  with  the 
whole.  The  youth’s  face  remained  fixed  for  a  moment; 
then  he  flushed,  leaned  on  the  table,  and  burst  into  pas¬ 
sionate  tears. 

His  mother  went  up  to  him,  kissed  all  of  his  face 
that  she  could  get  at,  and  patted  his  back  as  if  he 
were  still  the  baby  he  once  had  been,  crying  herself 
the  while.  When  he  had  somewhat  recovered  from 
his  paroxysm  he  went  hastily  to  his  own  room  and 
fastened  the  door. 

Parleyings  were  attempted  through  the  key-hole, 


20 


life’s  little  ironies 


outside  which  she  "waited  and  listened.  It  was  long 
before  he  would  reply,  and  when  he  did  it  was  to  say 
sternly  at  her  from  within:  “I  am  ashamed  of  you! 
It  will  ruin  me  !  A  miserable  boor!  a  churl !  a  clown! 
It  will  degrade  me  in  the  eyes  of  all  the  gentlemen  of 
England!” 

“  Say  no  more — perhaps  I  am  wrong!  I  will  struggle 
against  it!”  she  cried,  miserably. 

Before  Randolph  left  her  that  summer  a  letter  ar¬ 
rived  from  Sam  to  inform  her  that  he  had  been  unex¬ 
pectedly  fortunate  in  obtaining  the  shop.  He  was  in 
possession;  it  was  the  largest  in  the  town,  combining 
fruit  with  vegetables,  and  he  thought  it  would  form  a 
home  worthy  even  of  her  some  day.  Might  he  not 
run  up  to  town  to  see  her  ? 

She  met  him  by  stealth,  and  said  he  must  still  wait 
for  her  final  answer.  The  autumn  dragged  on,  and 
when  Randolph  was  home  at  Christmas  for  the  holi¬ 
days  she  broached  the  matter  again.  But  the  young 
gentleman  was  inexorable. 

It  was  dropped  for  months;  renewed  again;  aban¬ 
doned  under  his  repugnance;  again  attempted,  and 
thus  the  gentle  creature  reasoned  and  pleaded  till  four 
or  five  long  years  had  passed.  Then  the  faithful  Sam 
revived  his  suit  with  some  peremptoriness.  Sophy’s 
son,  now  an  undergraduate,  was  down  from  Oxford 
one  Easter,  when  she  again  opened  the  subject.  As 
soon  as  he  was  ordained,  she  argued,  he  would  have  a 
home  of  his  own,  wherein  she,  with  her  bad  grammar 
and  her  ignorance,  would  be  an  encumbrance  to  him. 
Better  obliterate  her  as  much  as  possible. 

He  showed  a  more  manly  anger  now,  but  would  not 
agree.  She  on  her  side  was  more  persistent,  and  he 
had  doubts  whether  she  could  be  trusted  in  his  ab¬ 
sence.  But  by  indignation  and  contempt  for  her  taste 
he  completely  maintained  his  ascendency;  and  finally 


THE  SON'S  VETO 


21 


taking  her  before  a  little  cross  and  shrine  that  he  had 
erected  in  his  bedroom  for  his  private  devotions, 
there  bade  her  kneel,  and  swear  that  she  would  not 
wed  Samuel  Hobson  without  his  consent.  “  I  owe 
this  to  my  father!”  he  said. 

The  poor  woman  swore,  thinking  he  would  soften 
as  soon  as  he  was  ordained  and  in  full  swing  of  clerical 
work.  But  he  did  not.  Ilis  education  had  by  this 
time  sufficiently  ousted  his  humanity  to  keep  him 
quite  firm;  though  his  mother  might  have  led  an  idyl¬ 
lic  life  with  her  faithful  fruiterer  and  green-grocer, 
and  nobody  have  been  anything  the  worse  in  the 
world. 

Her  lameness  became  more  confirmed  as  time  went 
on,  and  she  seldom  or  never  left  the  house  in  the  long 
southern  thoroughfare,  where  she  seemed  to  be  pining 
her  heart  away.  “  Why  mayn’t  I  say  to  Sam  that  I’ll 
marry  him  ?  Why  mayn’t  I  ?”  she  would  murmur 
plaintively  to  herself  when  nobody  was  near. 

Some  four  years  after  this  date  a  middle-aged  man 
was  standing  at  the  door  of  the  largest  fruiterer’s  shop 
in  Aldbrickham.  He  was  the  proprietor,  but  to-day, 
instead  of  his  usual  business  attire,  he  wore  a  neat 
suit  of  black;  and  his  window  was  partly  shuttered. 
From  the  railway  -  station  a  funeral  procession  was 
seen  approaching:  it  passed  his  door  and  went  out  of 
the  town  towards  the  village  of  Gaymead.  The  man, 
whose  eyes  were  wet,  held  his  hat  in  his  hand  as  the 
vehicles  moved  by;  while  from  the  mourning  coach  a 
young  smooth-shaven  priest  in  a  high  waistcoat  looked 
black  as  a  cloud  at  the  shopkeeper  standing  there. 

December,  1891. 


FOE  CONSCIENCE’  SAKE 


I 

Whether  the  utilitarian  or  the  intuitive  theory  of 
the  moral  sense  be  upheld,  it  is  beyond  question  that 
there  are  a  few  subtle-souled  persons  with  whom  the 
absolute  gratuitousness  of  an  act  of  reparation  is  an 
inducement  to  perform  it;  while  exhortation  as  to  its 
necessity  would  breed  excuses  for  leaving  it  undone. 
The  case  of  Mr.  Millborne  and  Mrs.  Frankland  partic¬ 
ularly  illustrated  this,  and  perhaps  something  more. 

There  were  few  figures  better  known  to  the  local 
crossing  -  sweeper  than  Mr.  Millborne’s,  in  his  daily 
comings  and  goings  along  a  familiar  and  quiet  Lon¬ 
don  street,  where  he  lived  inside  the  door  marked 
eleven,  though  not  as  householder.  In  age  he  was 
fifty  at  least,  and  his  habits  were  as  regular  as  those 
of  a  person  can  be  who  has  no  occupation  but  the 
study  of  how  to  keep  himself  employed.  He  turned 
almost  always  to  the  right  on  getting  to  the  end  of 
his  street,  then  he  went  onward  down  Bond  Street  to 
his  club,  whence  he  returned  by  precisely  the  same 
course  about  six  o’clock,  on  foot ;  or,  if  he  went  to 
dine,  later  on  in  a  cab.  He  was  known  to  be  a  man  of 
some  means,  though  apparently  not  wealthy.  Being 
a  bachelor  he  seemed  to  prefer  his  present  mode  of 
living  as  a  lodger  in  Mrs.  Towney’s  best  rooms,  with 


FOB  CONSCIENCE’  SAK.K 


38 

tlie  use  of  furniture  which  he  had  bought  ten  times 
over  in  rent  during  his  tenancy,  to  having  a  house  of 
his  own. 

None  among  his  acquaintance  tried  to  know  him 
well,  for  his  manner  and  moods  did  not  excite  curi¬ 
osity  or  deep  friendship.  He  was  not  a  man  who 
seemed  to  have  anything  on  his  mind,  anything  to 
conceal,  anything  to  impart.  From  his  casual  re¬ 
marks  it  was  generally  understood  that  he  was  coun¬ 
try-born,  a  native  of  some  place  in  Wessex;  that 
he  had  come  to  London  as  a  young  man  in  a  bank¬ 
ing-house,  and  had  risen  to  a  post  of  responsibility ; 
when,  by  the  death  of  his  father,  who  had  been  fort¬ 
unate  in  his  investments,  the  son  succeeded  to  an  in¬ 
come  which  led  him  to  retire  from  a  business  life 
somewhat  early. 

One  evening,  when  he  had  been  unwell  for  several 
days,  Dr.  Bindon  came  in  after  dinner  from  the  ad¬ 
joining  medical  quarter,  and  smoked  with  him  over 
the  fire.  The  patient’s  ailment  was  not  such  as  to  re¬ 
quire  much  thought,  and  they  talked  together  on  in¬ 
different  subjects. 

“I  am  a  lonely  man,  Bindon — a  lonely  man,”  Mill- 
borne  took  occasion  to  say,  shaking  his  head  gloomi¬ 
ly.  “You  don’t  know  such  loneliness  as  mine.  .  .  .  And 
the  older  I  get  the  more  I  am  dissatisfied  with  my¬ 
self.  And  to-day  I  have  been,  through  an  accident, 
more  than  usually  haunted  by  what,  above  all  other 
events  of  my  life,  causes  that  dissatisfaction — the  rec¬ 
ollection  of  an  unfulfilled  promise  made  some  twenty 
years  ago.  In  ordinary  affairs  I  have  always  been 
considered  a  man  of  my  wTord ;  and  perhaps  it  is  on 
that  account  that  a  particular  vow  I  once  made  and 
did  not  keep  comes  back  to  me  with  a  magnitude  out 
of  all  proportion  (I  dare  say)  to  its  real  gravity,  es¬ 
pecially  at  this  time  of  day.  You  know  the  discom- 


24 


life’s  little  ironies 


fort  caused  at  night  by  the  half-sleeping  sense  that 
a  door  or  window  has  been  left  unfastened,  or  in  the 
day  by  the  remembrance  of  unanswered  letters.  So 
does  that  promise  haunt  me  from  time  to  time,  and 
has  done  to-day  particularly.” 

There  was  a  pause,  and  they  smoked  on.  Mill- 
borne’s  eyes,  though  fixed  on  the  fire,  were  really  re¬ 
garding  attentively  a  town  in  the  West  of  England. 

“Yes,”  he  continued,  “I  have  never  quite  forgot¬ 
ten  it,  though  during  the  busy  years  of  my  life  it 
was  shelved  and  buried  under  the  pressure  of  my 
pursuits.  And,  as  I  say,  to-day  in  particular  an  in¬ 
cident  in  the  law  report  of  a  somewhat  similar  kind 
has  brought  it  back  again  vividly.  However,  what  it 
was  I  can  tell  you  in  a  few  words,  though  no  doubt 
you,  as  a  man  of  the  world,  will  smile  at  the  thinness 
of  my  skin  when  you  hear  it.  ...  I  came  up  to  town  at 
one -and -twenty,  from  Toneborougli,  in  Outer  Wes¬ 
sex,  where  I  was  born,  and  where,  before  I  left,  I  had 
won  the  heart  of  a  young  woman  of  my  own  age.  I 
promised  her  marriage,  took  advantage  of  my  prom¬ 
ise,  and — am  a  bachelor.” 

“  The  old  story.” 

The  other  nodded. 

“I  left  the  place,  and  thought  at  the  time  I  had 
done  a  very  clever  thing  in  getting  so  easily  out  of 
an  entanglement.  But  I  have  lived  long  enough  for 
that  promise  to  return  to  bother  me  —  to  be  honest, 
not  altogether  as  a  pricking  of  the  conscience,  but  as 
a  dissatisfaction  with  myself  as  a  specimen  of  the 
heap  of  flesh  called  humanity.  If  I  were  to  ask  you 
to  lend  me  fifty  pounds,  which  I  would  repay  you 
next  midsummer,  and  I  did  not  repay  you,  I  should 
consider  myself  a  shabby  sort  of  fellow,  especially  if 
you  wanted  the  money  badly.  Yet  I  promised  that 
girl  just  as  distinctly,  and  then  coolly  broke  my  word, 


FOB  CONSCIENCE’  SAKE 


25 


jib  if  doing  so  were  rather  smart  conduct  than  a  mean 
action,  for  which  the  poor  victim  herself,  encumbered 
with  a  child,  and  not  I,  had  really  to  pay  the  penalty, 
in  spite  of  certain  pecuniary  aid  that  was  given.  .  .  . 
There,  that’s  the  retrospective  trouble  that  I  am  al¬ 
ways  unearthing  ;  and  you  may  hardly  believe  that 
though  so  many  years  have  elapsed,  and  it  is  all  gone 
by  and  done  with,  and  she  must  be  getting  on  for  an 
old  woman  now,  as  I  am  for  an  old  man,  it  really  often 
destroys  my  sense  of  self-respect  still.” 

“  Oh,  I  can  understand  it.  All  depends  upon  the 
temperament.  Thousands  of  men  would  have  forgot¬ 
ten  all  about  it;  so  would  you,  perhaps,  if  you  had 
married  and  had  a  family.  Did  she  ever  marry?” 

“I  don’t  think  so.  Oh  no  —  she  never  did.  She 
left  Toneborough,  and  later  on  appeared  under  an¬ 
other  name  at  Exonbury,  in  the  next  county,  where 
she  was  not  known.  It  is  very  seldom  that  I  go 
down  into  that  part  of  the  country,  but  in  passing 
through  Exonbury  on  one  occasion  I  learned  that  she 
was  quite  a  settled  resident  there,  as  a  teacher  of  mu¬ 
sic  or  something  of  the  kind.  That  much  I  casually 
heard  when  I  was  there  two  or  three  years  ago.  But 
I  have  never  set  eyes  on  her  since  our  original  ac¬ 
quaintance,  and  should  not  know  her  if  I  met  her.” 

“  Did  the  child  live  ?”  asked  the  doctor. 

“  For  several  years,  certainly,”  replied  his  friend. 
“  I  cannot  say  if  she  is  living  now.  It  was  a  little 
girl.  She  might  be  married  by  this  time  as  far  as 
years  go.” 

“  And  the  mother — was  she  a  decent,  worthy  young 
woman  ?” 

“  Oh  yes  ;  a  sensible,  quiet  girl,  neither  attractive 
nor  unattractive  to  the  ordinary  observer  ;  simply 
commonplace.  Her  position  at  the  time  of  our  ac¬ 
quaintance  was  not  so  good  as  mine.  My  father  was 


26 


life’s  little  ironies 


a  solicitor,  as  I  think  I  have  told  you.  She  was  a 
young  girl  in  a  music-shop  ;  and  it  was  represented 
to  me  that  it  would  be  beneath  my  position  to  marry 
her.  Hence  the  result.” 

“  Well,  all  I  can  say  is  that  after  twenty  years  it  is 
probably  too  late  to  think  of  mending  such  a  matter. 
It  has  doubtless  by  this  time  mended  itself.  You  had 
better  dismiss  it  from  your  mind  as  an  evil  past  your 
control.  Of  course,  if  mother  and  daughter  are  alive, 
or  either,  you  might  settle  something  upon  them,  if 
you  were  inclined,  and  had  it  to  spare.” 

“  Well,  I  haven’t  much  to  spare,  and  I  have  rela¬ 
tions  in  narrow  circumstances  —  perhaps  narrower 
than  theirs.  But  that  is  not  the  point.  Were  I  ever 
so  rich  I  feel  I  could  not  rectify  the  past  by  money. 
I  did  not  promise  to  enrich  her.  On  the  contrary, 
I  told  her  it  would  probably  be  dire  poverty  for  both 
of  us.  But  I  did  promise  to  make  her  my  wife.” 

“  Then  find  her  and  do  it,”  said  the  doctor,  jocularly, 
as  he  rose  to  leave. 

“  Ah,  Bindon.  That,  of  course,  is  the  obvious  jest. 
But  I  haven’t  the  slightest  desire  for  marriage  ;  I  am 
quite  content  to  live  as  I  have  lived.  I  am  a  bache¬ 
lor  by  nature  and  instinct  and  habit  and  everything. 
Besides,  though  I  respect  her  still  (for  she  was  not 
an  atom  to  blame),  I  haven’t  any  shadow  of  love  for 
her.  In  my  mind  she  exists  as  one  of  those  women 
you  think  well  of,  but  find  uninteresting.  It  would 
be  purely  with  the  idea  of  putting  wrong  right  that 
I  should  hunt  her  up,  and  propose  to  do  it  off-hand.” 

“You  don’t  think  of  it  seriously?”  said  his  surprised 
friend. 

“  I  sometimes  think  that  I  would,  if  it  were  prac¬ 
ticable  ;  simply,  as  I  say,  to  recover  my  sense  of  being 
a  man  of  honor.” 

“  I  wish  you  luck  in  the  enterprise,”  said  Dr.  Bin- 


FOB  CONSCIENCE’  SAKE 


27 


don.  “  You’ll  soon  be  out  of  that  chair,  and  then  you 
can  put  your  impulse  to  the  test.  But — after  twenty 
years  of  silence — I  should  say,  don’t !” 


II 

The  doctor’s  advice  remained  counterpoised  in 
Millborne’s  mind  by  the  aforesaid  mood  of  serious¬ 
ness  and  sense  of  principle,  approximating  often  to 
religious  sentiment,  which  had  been  evolving  itself 
in  his  breast  for  months,  and  even  years. 

The  feeling,  however,  had  no  immediate  effect  upon 
Mr.  Millborne’s  actions.  He  soon  got  over  his  trifling 
illness,  and  was  vexed  with  himself  for  having,  in  a 
moment  of  impulse,  confided  such  a  case  of  conscience 
to  anybody. 

But  the  force  which  had  prompted  it,  though  la¬ 
tent,  remained  with  him,  and  ultimately  grew  strong¬ 
er.  The  upshot  was  that  about  four  months  after  the 
date  of  his  illness  and  disclosure,  Millborne  found 
himself  on  a  mild  spring  morning  at  Paddington  Sta¬ 
tion,  in  a  train  that  was  starting  for  the  west.  His 
many  intermittent  thoughts  on  his  broken  promise 
from  time  to  time,  in  those  hours  when  loneliness 
brought  him  face  to  face  with  his  own  personality, 
had  at  last  resulted  in  this  course. 

The  decisive  stimulus  had  been  given  when,  a  day 
or  two  earlier,  on  looking  into  a  post-office  directory, 
he  learned  that  the  woman  he  had  not  met  for  twenty 
years  was  still  living  on  at  Exonbury  under  the  name 
she  had  assumed  when,  a  year  or  two  after  her  dis¬ 
appearance  from  her  native  town  and  his,  she  had 
returned  from  abroad  as  a  young  widow  with  a  child, 
and  taken  up  her  residence  at  the  former  city.  Her 


life’s  little  ironies 


28 

condition  was  apparently  but  little  changed,  and  her 
daughter  seemed  to  be  with  her,  their  names  standing 
in  the  directory  as  “  Mrs.  Leonora  Frankland  and 
Miss  Frankland,  Teachers  of  Music  and  Dancing.” 

Mr.  Millborne  reached  Exonbury  in  the  afternoon, 
and  his  first  business,  before  even  taking  his  luggage 
into  the  town,  was  to  find  the  house  occupied  by  the 
teachers.  Standing  in  a  central  and  open  place  it 
was  not  difficult  to  discover,  a  well-burnished  brass 
door  -  plate  bearing  their  names  prominently.  He 
hesitated  to  enter  without  further  knowledge,  and 
ultimately  took  lodgings  over  a  toy -shop  opposite* 
securing  a  sitting-room  which  faced  a  similar  draw¬ 
ing  or  sitting  room  at  the  Franklands’,  where  the 
dancing  lessons  were  given.  Installed  here  he  was 
enabled  to  make  indirectly,  and  without  suspicion,  in¬ 
quiries  and  observations  on  the  character  of  the  ladies 
over  the  way,  which  he  did  with  much  deliberateness. 

He  learned  that  the  widow,  Mrs.  Frankland,  with 
her  one  daughter,  Frances,  wTas  of  cheerful  and  ex¬ 
cellent  repute,  energetic  and  painstaking  with  her 
pupils,  of  whom  she  had  a  good  many,  and  in  whose 
tuition  her  daughter  assisted  her.  She  was  quite 
a  recognized  townswoman,  and  though  the  dancing 
branch  of  her  profession  was  perhaps  a  trifle  world¬ 
ly,  she  was  really  a  serious-minded  lady  who,  being 
obliged  to  live  by  what  she  knew  how  to  teach,  bal¬ 
anced  matters  by  lending  a  hand  at  charitable  bazaars, 
assisting  at  sacred  concerts,  and  giving  musical  rec¬ 
itations  in  aid  of  funds  for  bewildering  happy  sav¬ 
ages,  and  other  such  enthusiasms  of  this  enlight¬ 
ened  country.  Her  daughter  was  one  of  the  foremost 
of  the  bevy  of  young  women  who  decorated  the 
churches  at  Easter  and  Christmas,  was  organist  in 
one  of  those  edifices,  and  had  subscribed  to  the  testi¬ 
monial  of  a  silver  broth-basin  that  was  presented  to 


FOR  CONSCIENCE’  SAKE 


29 


the  Rev.  Mr.  Walker  as  a  token  of  gratitude  for  his 
faithful  and  arduous  intonations  of  six  months  as 
sub-precentor  in  the  cathedral.  Altogether,  mother 
and  daughter  appeared  to  be  a  typical  and  innocent 
pair  among  the  genteel  citizens  of  Exonbury. 

As  a  natural  and  simple  way  of  advertising  their 
profession  they  allowed  the  windows  of  the  music- 
room  to  be  a  little  open,  so  that  you  had  the  pleasure 
of  hearing  all  along  the  street  at  any  hour  between 
sunrise  and  sunset  fragmentary  gems  of  classical 
music  as  interpreted  by  the  young  people  of  twelve 
or  fourteen  who  took  lessons  there.  But  it  was  said 
that  Mrs.  Frankland  made  most  of  her  income  by 
letting  out  pianos  on  hire,  and  by  selling  them  as 
agent  for  the  makers. 

The  report  pleased  Millborne  ;  it  was  highly  credit¬ 
able,  and  far  better  than  he  had  hoped.  He  was  cu¬ 
rious  to  get  a  view  of  the  two  women  who  led  such 
blameless  lives. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait  to  gain  a  glimpse  of  Leo¬ 
nora.  It  was  when  she  was  standing  on  her  own 
door-step,  opening  her  parasol,  on  the  morning  after 
his  arrival.  She  was  thin,  though  not  gaunt ;  and  a 
good,  well- wearing,  thoughtful  face  had  taken  the 
place  of  the  one  which  had  temporarily  attracted  him 
in  the  days  of  his  nonage.  She  wore  black,  and  it 
became  her  in  her  character  of  widow.  The  daugh¬ 
ter  next  appeared;  she  was  a  smoothed  and  rounded 
copy  of  her  mother,  with  the  same  decision  in  her  mien 
that  Leonora  had,  and  a  bounding  gait  in  which  he 
traced  a  faint  resemblance  to  his  own  at  her  age. 

For  the  first  time  he  absolutely  made  up  his  mind 
to  call  on  them.  But  his  antecedent  step  was  to  send 
Leonora  a  note  the  next  morning,  stating  his  proposal 
to  visit  her,  and  suggesting  the  evening  as  the  time, 
because  she  seemed  to  be  so  greatly  occupied  in  her 


30 


life’s  little  ironies 


professional  capacity  during  the  day.  He  purposely 
worded  his  note  in  such  a  form  as  not  to  require  an 
answer  from  her  which  would  be  possibly  awkward  to 
write. 

No  answer  came.  Naturally  he  should  not  have 
been  surprised  at  this;  and  yet  he  felt  a  little  checked, 
even  though  she  had  only  refrained  from  volunteering 
a  reply  that  was  not  demanded. 

At  eight,  the  hour  fixed  by  himself,  he  crossed  over 
and  was  passively  admitted  by  the  servant.  Mrs. 
Frankland,  as  she  called  herself,  received  him  in  the 
large  music  and  dancing  room  on  the  first  floor  front, 
and  not  in  any  private  little  parlor  as  he  had  expected. 
This  cast  a  distressingly  business-like  color  over  their 
first  meeting  after  so  many  years  of  severance.  The 
woman  he  had  wronged  stood  before  him,  well-dressed, 
even  to  his  metropolitan  eyes,  and  her  manner  as  she 
came  up  to  him  was  dignified  even  to  hardness.  She 
certainly  was  not  glad  to  see  him.  But  what  could 
he  expect  after  a  neglect  of  twenty  years  ! 

“How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Millborne  ?”  she  said,  cheer¬ 
fully,  as  to  any  chance  caller.  “I  am  obliged  to  re¬ 
ceive  you  here  because  my  daughter  has  a  friend  down¬ 
stairs.” 

“Your  daughter — and  mine.” 

“Ah — yes,  yes,”  she  replied,  hastily,  as  if  the  addi¬ 
tion  had  escaped  her  memory.  “  But  perhaps  the  less 
said  about  that  the  better,  in  fairness  to  me.  You  will 
consider  me  a  widow,  please.” 

“  Certainly,  Leonora — ”  He  could  not  get  on,  her 
manner  was  so  cold  and  indifferent.  The  expected 
scene  of  sad  reproach,  subdued  to  delicacy  by  the  run 
of  years,  was  absent  altogether.  He  was  obliged  to 
come  to  the  point  without  preamble. 

“You  are  quite  free,  Leonora — T  mean  as  to  mar¬ 
riage  ?  There  is  nobody  who  has  your  promise,  or — ” 


FOR  CONSCIENCE’  SAKE 


31 


“  Oh  yes;  quite  free,  Mr.  Millborne,”  she  said,  some¬ 
what  surprised. 

“  Then  I  will  tell  you  why  I  have  come.  Twenty 
years  ago  I  promised  to  make  you  my  wife,  and  I  am 
here  to  fulfil  that  promise.  Heaven  forgive  my  tardi¬ 
ness!” 

Her  surprise  was  increased,  but  she  was  not  agi¬ 
tated.  She  seemed  to  become  gloomy,  disapproving. 
“  I  could  not  entertain  such  an  idea  at  this  time  of 
life,”  she  said,  after  a  moment  or  two.  “It  would 
complicate  matters  too  greatly.  I  have  a  very  fair 
income,  and  require  no  help  of  any  sort.  I  have  no 
wish  to  marry.  .  .  .  What  could  have  induced  you  to 
come  on  such  an  errand  now  ?  It  seems  quite  ex¬ 
traordinary,  if  I  may  say  so.” 

“It  must — I  dare  say  it  does,”  Millborne  replied, 
vaguely;  “and  I  must  tell  you  that  impulse — I  mean 
in  the  sense  of  passion — has  little  to  do  with  it.  I  wish 
to  marry  you,  Leonora;  I  much  desire  to  marry  you. 
But  it  is  an  affair  of  conscience,  a  case  of  fulfilment. 
I  promised  you,  and  it  was  dishonorable  of  me  to  go 
away.  I  want  to  remove  that  sense  of  dishonor  before 
I  die.  No  doubt  we  might  get  to  love  each  other  as 
warmly  as  we  did  in  old  times.” 

She  dubiously  shook  her  head.  “  I  appreciate  your 
motives,  Mr.  Millborne  ;  but  you  must  consider  my 
positron,  and  you  will  see  that,  short  of  the  personal 
wish  to  marry,  which  I  don’t  feel,  there  is  no  reason 
why  I  should  change  my  state,  even  though  by  so  do¬ 
ing  I  should  ease  your  conscience.  My  position  in 
this  town  is  a  respected  one;  I  have  built  it  up  by  my 
own  hard  labors,  and,  in  short,  I  don’t  wish  to  alter  it. 
My  daughter,  too,  is  just  on  the  verge  of  an  engage¬ 
ment  to  be  married  to  a  young  man  who  will  make 
her  an  excellent  husband.  It  will  be  in  every  way  a 
desirable  match  for  her.  He  is  down-stairs  now.” 


32 


life’s  little  ironies 


“Does  she  know — anything  about  me?’’ 

“  Oh  no,  no  ;  God  forbid  !  Her  father  is  dead  and 
buried  to  her.  So  that,  you  see,  things  are  going  on 
smoothly,  and  I  don’t  want  to  disturb  their  progress.” 

He  nodded.  “  Very  well,”  he  said,  and  rose  to  go. 
At  the  door,  however,  he  came  back  again. 

“  Still,  Leonora,”  he  urged,  “  I  have  come  on  pur¬ 
pose,  and  I  don’t  see  what  disturbance  would  be 
caused.  You  would  simply  marry  an  old  friend. 
Won’t  you  reconsider?  It  is  no  more  than  right 
that  we  should  be  united,  remembering  the  girl.” 

She  shook  her  head,  and  patted  with  her  foot  ner¬ 
vously. 

“Well,  I  won’t  detain  you,”  he  added.  “I  shall 
not  be  leaving  Exonbury  yet.  You  will  allow  me  to 
see  you  again  ?” 

“Yes;  I  don’t  mind,”  she  said,  reluctantly. 

The  obstacles  he  had  encountered,  though  they  did 
not  reanimate  his  dead  passion  for  Leonora,  did  cer¬ 
tainly  make  it  appear  indispensable  to  his  peace  of 
mind  to  overcome  her  coldness.  He  called  frequent¬ 
ly.  The  first  meeting  with  the  daughter  was  a  trying 
ordeal,  though  he  did  not  feel  drawn  towards  her  as  he 
had  expected  to  be;  she  did  not  excite  his  sympathies. 
Her  mother  confided  to  Frances  the  errand  of  “her 
old  friend,”  which  was  viewed  by  the  daughter  with 
strong  disfavor.  His  desire  being  thus  uncongenial 
to  both,  for  a  long  time  Millborne  made  not  the  least 
impression  upon  Mrs.  Frankland.  His  attentions  pes¬ 
tered  her  rather  than  pleased  her.  He  was  surprised 
at  her  firmness,  and  it  was  only  when  he  hinted  at 
moral  reasons  for  their  union  that  she  was  ever  shaken. 
“Strictly  speaking,”  he  would  say,  “we  ought,  as  honest 
persons,  to  marry;  and  that’s  the  truth  of  it,  Leonora.” 

“  I  have  looked  at  it  in  that  light,”  she  said,  quick¬ 
ly.  “  It  struck  me  at  the  very  first.  But  I  don’t  see 


FOE  CONSCIENCE’  SAKE 


33 


the  force  of  the  argument.  I  totally  deny  that  after 
this  interval  of  time  I  am  bound  to  marry  you  for 
honor’s  sake.  I  would  have  married  you,  as  you  know 
well  enough,  at  the  proper  time.  But  what  is  the  use 
of  remedies  now  ?” 

They  were  standing  at  the  window.  A  scantily- 
whiskered  young  man  in  clerical  attire  called  at  the 
door  below.  Leonora  flushed  with  interest. 

“  Who  is  he  ?”  asked  Mr.  Millborne. 

“My  Frances’s  lover.  I  am  so  sorry — she  is  not  at 
home  !  Ah  !  they  have  told  him  where  she  is,  and  he 
has  gone  to  find  her.  I  hope  that  suit  will  prosper, 
at  any  rate  !” 

“Why  shouldn’t  it?” 

“Well,  he  cannot  marry  yet;  and  Frances  sees  but 
little  of  him  now  he  has  left  Exonbury.  He  was  for¬ 
merly  doing  duty  here,  but  now  he  is  curate  of  St. 
John’s,  Ivell,  fifty  miles  up  the  line.  There  is  a  tacit 
agreement  between  them,  but — there  have  been  friends 
of  his  who  object,  because  of  our  vocation.  However, 
he  sees  the  absurdity  of  such  an  objection  as  that,  and 
is  not  influenced  by  it.” 

“Your  marriage  with  me  would  help  the  match,  in¬ 
stead  of  hindering  it,  as  you  have  said.” 

“  Do  you  think  it  would  ?” 

“  It  certainly  would,  by  taking  you  out  of  this  busi¬ 
ness  altogether.” 

By  chance  he  had  found  the  way  to  move  her  some¬ 
what,  and  he  followed  it  up.  This  view  was  imparted 
to  Mrs.  Frankland’s  daughter,  and  it  led  her  to  soften 
her  opposition.  Millborne,  who  had  given  up  his  lodg¬ 
ing  in  Exonbui  /,  journeyed  to  and  fro  regularly,  till 
at  last  he  overcame  her  negations,  and  she  expressed  a 
reluctant  assent. 

They  were  married  at  the  nearest  church  ;  and  the 
good  -  will  —  whatever  that  was — of  the  music  -  and- 
3 


34 


life’s  little  ironies 


dancing  connection  was  sold  to  a  successor  only  too 
ready  to  jump  into  the  place,  the  Millbornes  having 
decided  to  live  in  London. 


Ill 

Millhorne  was  a  householder  in  his  old  district, 
though  not  in  his  old  street,  and  Mrs.  Millborne  and 
their  daughter  had  turned  themselves  into  Londoners. 
Frances  was  well  reconciled  to  the  removal  by  her 
lover’s  satisfaction  at  the  change.  It  suited  him  bet¬ 
ter  to  travel  from  Ivell  a  hundred  miles  to  see  her  in 
London,  where  he  frequently  had  other  engagements, 
than  fifty  in  the  opposite  direction  where  nothing  but 
herself  required  his  presence.  So  here  they  were,  fur¬ 
nished  up  to  the  attics,  in  one  of  the  small  but  popu¬ 
lar  streets  of  the  West  district,  in  a  house  whose 
front,  till  lately  of  the  complexion  of  a  chimney¬ 
sweep,  had  been  scraped  to  show  to  the  surprised  way¬ 
farer  the  bright  yellow  and  red  brick  that  had  lain 
lurking  beneath  the  soot  of  fifty  years. 

The  social  lift  that  the  two  women  had  derived 
from  the  alliance  was  considerable  ;  but  when  the  ex¬ 
hilaration  which  accompanies  a  first  residence  in  Lon¬ 
don,  the  sensation  of  standing  on  a  pivot  of  the  world, 
had  passed,  their  lives  promised  to  be  somewhat  duller 
than  when,  at  despised  Exonbury,  they  had  enjoyed  a 
nodding  acquaintance  with  three-fourths  of  the  town. 
Mr.  Millborne  did  not  criticise  his  wife ;  he  could  not. 
Whatever  defects  of  hardness  and  acidity  his  original 
treatment  and  the  lapse  of  years  might  have  developed 
in  her,  his  sense  of  a  realized  idea,  of  a  re-established 
self-satisfaction,  was  always  thrown  into  the  scale  on 
her  side,  and  outweighed  all  objections. 


FOR  CONSCIENCE’  SAKE 


35 


It  was  about  a  month  after  their  settlement  in  town 
that  the  household  decided  to  spend  a  week  at  a 
watering-place  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  and  while  there 
the  Rev.  Percival  Cope  (the  young  curate  aforesaid) 
came  to  see  them,  Frances  in  particular.  No  formal 
engagement  of  the  young  pair  had  been  announced  as 
yet,  but  it  was  clear  that  their  mutual  understanding 
could  not  end  in  anything  but  marriage  without  griev¬ 
ous  disappointment  to  one  of  the  parties  at  least.  Not 
that  Frances  was  sentimental.  She  was  rather  of  the 
imperious  sort,  indeed  ;  and,  to  say  all,  the  young  girl 
had  not  fulfilled  her  father’s  expectations  of  her.  But 
he  hoped  and  worked  for  her  welfare  as  sincerely  as 
any  father  could  do. 

Mr.  Cope  was  introduced  to  the  new  head  of  the 
family,  and  stayed  with  them  in  the  island  two  or 
three  days.  On  the  last  day  of  his  visit  they  decided 
to  venture  on  a  two  hours’  sail  in  one  of  the  small 
yachts  which  lay  there  for  hire.  The  trip  had  not 
progressed  far  before  all  except  the  curate  found 
that  sailing  in  a  breeze  did  not  quite  agree  with 
them  ;  but  as  he  seemed  to  enjoy  the  experience,  the 
other  three  bore  their  condition  as  well  as  they  could 
without  grimace  or  complaint,  till  the  young  man,  ob¬ 
serving  their  discomfort,  gave  immediate  directions  to 
tack  about.  On  the  way  back  to  port  they  sat  silent, 
facing  each  other. 

Nausea  in  such  circumstances,  like  midnight  watch¬ 
ing,  fatigue,  trouble,  fright,  has  this  marked  effect 
upon  the  countenance — that  it  often  brings  out  strong¬ 
ly  the  divergences  of  the  individual  from  the  norm  of 
his  race,  accentuating  superficial  peculiarities  to  rad¬ 
ical  distinctions.  Unexpected  physiognomies  will  un¬ 
cover  themselves  at  these  times  in  well-known  faces; 
the  aspect  becomes  invested  with  the  spectral  presence 
of  entombed  and  forgotten  ancestors  ;  and  family  lin- 


36 


life’s  little  ironies 


eaments  of  special  or  exclusive  cast,  which  in  ordinary 
moments  are  masked  by  a  stereotyped  expression  and 
mien,  start  up  with  crude  insistence  to  the  view. 

Frances,  sitting  beside  her  mother’s  husband,  with 
Mr.  Cope  opposite,  was  naturally  enough  much  re¬ 
garded  by  the  curate  during  the  tedious  sail  home  ; 
at  first  with  sympathetic  smiles.  Then,  as  the  middle- 
aged  father  and  his  child  grew  each  gray-faced,  as 
the  pretty  blush  of  Frances  disintegrated  into  spotty 
stains,  and  the  soft  rotundities  of  her  features  diverged 
from  their  familiar  and  reposeful  beauty  into  elemen¬ 
tal  lines,  Cope  was  gradually  struck  with  the  resem¬ 
blance  between  a  pair  in  their  discomfort  who  in  their 
ease  presented  nothing  to  the  eye  in  common.  Mr. 
Millborne  and  Frances  in  their  indisposition  were 
strangely,  startlingly  alike. 

The  inexplicable  fact  absorbed  Cope’s  attention 
quite.  He  forgot  to  smile  at  Frances,  to  hold  her 
hand;  and  when  they  touched  the  shore  he  remained 
sitting  for  some  moments  like  a  man  in  a  trance. 

As  they  went  homeward,  and  recovered  their  com¬ 
plexions  and  contours,  the  similarities  one  by  one  dis¬ 
appeared,  and  Frances  and  Mr.  Millborne  were  again 
masked  by  the  commonplace  differences  of  sex  and 
age.  It  was  as  if,  during  the  voyage,  a  mysterious 
veil  had  been  lifted,  temporarily  revealing  a  strange 
pantomime  of  the  past. 

During  the  evening  he  said  to  her,  casually:  “Is 
your  step-father  a  cousin  of  your  mother,  dear  Fran¬ 
ces  ?” 

“  Oh  no,”  said  she  ;  “  there  is  no  relationship.  He 
was  only  an  old  friend  of  hers.  Why  did  you  suppose 
such  a  thing  ?” 

He  did  not  explain,  and  the  next  morning  started  to 
resume  his  duties  at  Ivell. 

Cope  was  an  honest  young  fellow,  and  shrewd 


FOE  CONSCIENCE’  SAKE 


37 


withal.  At  home  in  his  quiet  rooms  in  St.  Peter’s  Street, 
Ivell,  he  pondered  long  and  unpleasantly  on  the  reve¬ 
lations  of  the  cruise.  The  tale  it  told  was  distinct 
enough,  and  for  the  first  time  his  position  was  an  un¬ 
comfortable  one.  He  had  met  the  Franklands  at  Ex- 
onbury  as  parishioners,  had  been  attracted  by  Frances, 
and  had  floated  thus  far  into  an  engagement  which 
was  indefinite  only  because  of  his  inability  to  marry 
just  yet.  The  Franklands’  past  had  apparently  con¬ 
tained  mysteries,  and  it  did  not  coincide  with  his 
judgment  to  marry  into  a  family  whose  mystery  was 
of  the  sort  suggested.  So  he  sat  and  sighed  between 
his  reluctance  to  lose  Frances  and  his  natural  dislike 
of  forming  a  connection  with  people  whose  antece¬ 
dents  would  not  bear  the  strictest  investigation. 

A  passionate  lover  of  the  old-fashioned  sort  might 
possibly  never  have  halted  to  weigh  these  doubts;  but 
though  he  was  in  the  Church,  Cope’s  affections  were 
fastidious — distinctly  tempered  with  the  alloys  of  the 
century’s  decadence.  He  delayed  writing  to  Frances 
for  some  while,  simply  because  he  could  not  tune  him¬ 
self  up  to  enthusiasm  when  worried  by  suspicions  of 
such  a  kind. 

Meanwhile  the  Millbornes  had  returned  to  London, 
and  Frances  was  growing  anxious.  In  talking  to  her 
mother  of  Cope  she  had  innocently  alluded  to  his  curi¬ 
ous  inquiry  if  her  mother  and  her  step  -  father  were 
connected  by  any  tie  of  cousinship.  Mrs.  Millborne 
made  her  repeat  the  words.  Frances  did  so,  and 
watched  with  inquisitive  eyes  their  effect  upon  her 
elder. 

“  What  is  there  so  startling  in  his  inquiry,  then?” 
she  asked.  “  Can  it  have  anything  to  do  with  his  not 
writing  to  me  ?” 

Her  mother  flinched,  but  did  not  inform  her,  and 
Frances  also  was  now  drawn  within  the  atmosphere  of 


38 


life’s  little  ironies 


suspicion.  That  night,  when  standing  by  chance  out¬ 
side  the  chamber  of  her  parents,  she  heard  for  the  first 
time  their  voices  engaged  in  a  sharp  altercation. 

The  apple  of  discord  had,  indeed,  been  dropped  into 
the  house  of  the  Millbornes.  The  scene  within  the 
chamber  door  was  Mrs.  Millborne  standing  before  her 
dressing-table,  looking  across  to  her  husband  in  the 
dressing-room  adjoining,  where  he  was  sitting  down, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor. 

“  Why  did  you  come  and  disturb  my  life  a  second 
time?”  she  harshly  asked.  “  Why  did  you  pester  me 
with  your  conscience  till  I  was  driven  to  accept  you 
to  get  rid  of  your  importunity  ?  Frances  and  I  were 
doing  well  :  the  one  desire  of  my  life  was  that  she 
should  marry  that  good  young  man.  And  now  the 
match  is  broken  off  by  your  cruel  interference!  Why 
did  you  show  yourself  in  my  world  again,  and  raise 
this  scandal  upon  my  hard -won  respectability — won 
by  such  weary  years  of  labor  as  none  will  ever  know!” 
She  bent  her  face  upon  the  table  and  wept  passionately. 

There  was  no  reply  from  Mr.  Millborne.  Frances 
lay  awake  nearly  all  that  night,  and  when  at  breakfast¬ 
time  the  next  morning  still  no  letter  appeared  from 
Mr.  Cope,  she  entreated  her  mother  to  go  to  Ivell  and 
see  if  the  young  man  were  ill. 

Mrs.  Millborne  went,  returning  the  same  day.  Fran¬ 
ces,  anxious  and  haggard,  met  her  at  the  station. 

Was  all  well?  Her  mother  could  not  say  it  was; 
though  he  was  not  ill. 

One  thing  she  had  found  out — that  it  was  a  mistake 
to  hunt  up  a  man  when  his  inclinations  were  to  hold 
aloof.  Returning  with  her  mother  in  the  cab,  Frances 
insisted  upon  knowing  what  the  mystery  was  which 
plainly  had  alienated  her  lover.  The  precise  words 
which  had  been  spoken  at  the  interview  with  him  that 
dav  at  Ivell  Mrs.  Millborne  could  not  be  induced  to 


FOE  CONSCIENCE’  SAKE 


repeat;  but  thus  far  she  admitted — that  the  estrange¬ 
ment  was  fundamentally  owing  to  Mr.  Millborne  hav¬ 
ing  sought  her  out  and  married  her. 

“And  why  did  he  seek  you  out — and  why  were  you 
obliged  to  marry  him?”  asked  the  distressed  girl. 
Then  the  evidences  pieced  themselves  together  in  her 
acute  mind,  and,  her  color  gradually  rising,  she  asked 
her  mother  if  what  they  pointed  to  was  indeed  the 
fact.  Her  mother  admitted  that  it  was. 

A  flush  of  mortification  succeeded  to  the  flush  of 
shame  upon  the  young  woman’s  face.  How  could  a 
scrupulously  correct  clergyman  and  lover  like  Mr. 
Cope  ask  her  to  be  his  wife  after  this  discovery  of  her 
irregular  birth  ?  She  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands 
in  a  silent  despair. 

In  the  presence  of  Mr,  Millborne  they  at  first  sup¬ 
pressed  their  anguish.  But  by-and-by  their  feelings 
got  the  better  of  them,  and  when  he  was  asleep  in  his 
chair  after  dinner,  Mrs.  Millborne’s  irritation  broke 
out.  The  imbittered  Frances  joined  her  in  reproach* 
ing  the  man  who  had  come  as  the  spectre  to  their  in¬ 
tended  feast  of  Hymen,  and  turned  its  promise  to 
ghastly  failure. 

“  Why  were  you  so  weak,  mother,  as  to  admit  such 
an  enemy  to  your  house — one  so  obviously  your  evil 
genius  —  much  less  accept  him  as  a  husband,  after 
so  long?  If  you  had  only  told  me  all,  I  could  have 
advised  you  better  !  But  I  suppose  I  have  no  right  to 
reproach  him,  bitter  as  I  feel,  and  even  though  he  has 
blighted  my  life  forever  !” 

“  Frances,  I  did  hold  out;  I  saw  it  was  a  mistake  to 
have  any  more  to  say  to  a  man  who  had  been  such  an 
unmitigated  curse  to  me.  But  he  would  not  listen; 
he  kept  on  about  his  conscience  and  mine  till  I  was 
bewildered,  and  said,  ‘Yes.’ . .  .  Bringing  us  away  from 
a  quiet  town  where  we  were  known  and  respected — 


40 


life’s  little  ironies 


what  an  ill-considered  thing  it  was  !  Oh,  the  content 
of  those  days!  We  had  society  there,  people  in  our 
own  position,  who  did  not  expect  more  of  us  than  we 
expected  of  them.  Here,  where  there  is  so  much,  there 
is  nothing  !  He  said  London  society  was  so  bright 
and  brilliant  that  it  would  be  like  a  new  world.  It 
may  be  to  those  whcvare  in  it;  but  what  is  that  to  us 
two  lonely  women  ?  we  only  see  it  flashing  past !  .  .  . 
Oh,  the  fool*  the  fool  that  I  was !” 

Now  Mibborne  was  not  so  soundly  asleep  as  to  pre¬ 
vent  his  hearing  these  animadversions  that  were  almost 
execrations,  and  many  more  of  the  same  sort.  As 
there  was  no  peace  for  him  at  home,  he  went  again  to 
his  club,  where,  since  his  reunion  with  Leonora,  he  had 
seldom  if  ever  been  seen.  But  the  shadow  of  the 
troubles  in  his  household  interfered  with  his  comfort 
here  also;  he  could  not,  as  formerly,  settle  down  into 
his  favorite  chair  with  the  evening  paper,  reposeful  in 
the  celibate’s  sense  that  where  he  was  his  world’s  cen¬ 
tre  had  its  fixture.  His  wmrld  was  now  an  ellipse, 
with  a  dual  centrality,  of  which  his  own  was  not  the 
major. 

The  young  curate  of  Ivell  still  held  aloof,  tantaliz¬ 
ing  Frances  by  his  elusiveness.  Plainly  he  was  wait¬ 
ing  upon  events.  Millborne  bore  the  reproaches  of 
his  wife  and  daughter  almost  in  silence,  but  by  de¬ 
grees  he  grew  meditative,  as  if  revolving  a  new  idea. 
The  bitter  cry  about  blighting  their  existence  at 
length  became  so  impassioned  that  one  day  Millborne 
calmly  proposed  to  return  again  to  the  country;  not 
necessarily  to  Exonbury,  but,  if  they  were  willing,  to 
a  little  old  manor-house  which  he  had  found  was  to 
be  let,  standing  a  mile  from  Mr.  Cope’s  town  of  Ivell. 

They  were  surprised,  and,  despite  their  view  of 
him  as  the  bringer  of  ill,  were  disposed  to  accede. 
“  Though  I  suppose,”  said  Mrs.  Millborne  to  him,  “  it 


FOR  CONSCIENCE’  SAKE 


41 


will  end  in  Mr.  Cope’s  asking  you  flatly  about  the 
past,  and  your  being  compelled  to  tell  him,  which  may 
dash  all  my  hopes  for  Frances.  She  gets  more  and 
more  like  you  every  day,  particularly  when  she  is  in 
a  bad  temper.  People  will  see  you  together  and  no^ 
tice  it,  and  I  don’t  know  what  may  come  of  it !” 

“I  don’t  think  they  will  see  us  together,”  he  said; 
but  he  entered  into  no  argument  when  she  insisted 
otherwise.  The  removal  was  eventually  resolved  on  ; 
the  town  -  house  was  disposed  of,  and  again  came  the 
invasion  by  furniture-men  and  vans,  till  all  the  mova¬ 
bles  and  servants  were  whisked  away.  He  sent  his 
wife  and  daughter  to  a  hotel  while  this  was  going  on, 
taking  two  or  three  journeys  himself  to  I  veil  to  su¬ 
perintend  the  refixing,  and  the  improvement  of  the 
grounds.  When  all  was  done  he  returned  to  them  in 
town. 

The  house  was  ready  for  their  reception,  he  told 
them,  and  there  only  remained  the  journey.  He  ac¬ 
companied  them  and  their  personal  luggage  to  the 
station  only,  having,  he  said,  to  remain  in  town  a  short 
time  on  business  with  his  lawyer.  They  went,  dubi¬ 
ous  and  discontented,  for  the  much  -  loved  Cope  had 
made  no  sign. 

“If  we  were  going  down  to  live  here  alone,”  said 
Mrs.  Millborne  to  her  daughter  in  the  train  ;  “  and 
there  was  no  intrusive  telltale  presence  !  But  let  it 
be  !” 

The  house  was  a  lovely  little  place  in  a  grove  of 
elms,  and  they  liked  it  much.  The  first  person  to  call 
upon  them  as  new  residents  was  Mr.  Cope.  He  was 
delighted  to  find  that  they  had  come  so  near,  and 
(though  he  did  not  say  this)  meant  to  live  in  such 
excellent  style.  He  had  not,  however,  resumed  the 
manner  of  a  lover. 

“  Your  father  spoils  all !”  murmured  Mrs.  Millborne. 


42 


life’s  little  ironies 


But  three  days  later  she  received  a  letter  from  her 
husband  which  caused  her  no  small  degree  of  aston¬ 
ishment.  It  was  written  from  Boulogne. 

It  began  with  a  long  explanation  of  settlements  of 
his  property,  in  which  he  had  been  engaged  since 
their  departure.  The  chief  feature  in  the  business 
was  that  Mrs.  Millbourne  found  herself  the  absolute 
owner  of  a  comfortable  sum  in  personal  estate,  and 
Frances  of  a  life-interest  in  a  larger  sum,  the  princi¬ 
pal  to  be  afterwards  divided  among  her  children,  if 
she  had  any.  The  remainder  of  his  letter  ran  as  here¬ 
under  : 

“I  have  learned  that  there  are  some  derelictions  of  duty 
which  cannot  be  blotted  out  by  tardy  accomplishment.  Our 
evil  actions  do  not  remain  isolated  in  the  past,  waiting  only  to 
be  reversed;  like  locomotive  plants  they  spread  and  reroot, 
till  to  destroy  the  original  stem  has  no  material  effect  in  killing 
them.  I  made  a  mistake  in  searching  you  out ;  I  admit  it  ; 
whatever  the  remedy  may  be  in  such  cases  it  is  not  marriage, 
and  the  best  thing  for  you  and  me  is  that  you  do  not  see  me 
more.  You  had  better  not  seek  me,  for  you  will  not  be  likely 
to  find  me  ;  you  are  well  provided  for,  and  we  may  do  our¬ 
selves  more  harm  than  good  by  meeting  again.  F.  M.” 

Millborne,  in  short,  disappeared  from  that  day  for¬ 
ward.  But  a  searching  inquiry  would  have  revealed 
that,  soon  after  the  Millbornes  went  to  Ivell,  an  Eng¬ 
lishman  who  did  not  give  the  name  of  Millborne 
took  up  his  residence  in  Brussels  ;  a  man  who  might 
have  been  recognized  by  Mrs.  Millborne  if  she  had 
met  him.  One  afternoon  in  the  ensuing  summer, 
when  this  gentleman  was  looking  over  the  English 
papers,  he  saw  the  announcement  of  Miss  Frances 
Frankland’s  marriage.  She  had  become  the  Rev.  Mrs. 
Cope. 

“  Thank  God  !”  said  the  gentleman. 

But  his  momentary  satisfaction  was  far  from  being 


FOR  CONSCIENCE  SAKE 


43 


happiness.  As  he  formerly  had  been  weighted  with 
a  bad  conscience,  so  now  was  he  burdened  with  the 
heavy  thought  which  oppressed  Antigone,  that  by 
honorable  observance  of  a  rite  he  had  obtained  for 
himself  the  reward  of  dishonorable  laxity.  Occa¬ 
sionally  he  had  to  be  helped  to  his  lodgings  by  his 
servant  from  the  cercle  he  frequented,  through  having 
imbibed  a  little  too  much  liquor  to  be  able  to  take 
care  of  himself.  But  he  was  harmless,  and  even  when 
he  had  been  drinking  said  little. 


March,  1891. 


A  TRAGEDY  OF  TWO  AMBITIONS 


I 

The  shouts  of  the  village-boys  came  in  at  the  win* 
dow,  accompanied  by  broken  laughter  from  loungers  at 
the  inn  door  ;  but  the  brothers  Halborough  worked  on. 

They  were  sitting  in  a  bedroom  of  the  master-mill¬ 
wright’s  house,  engaged  in  the  untutored  reading  of 
Greek  and  Latin.  It  was  no  tale  of  Homeric  blows 
and  knocks,  Argonautic  voyaging,  or  Theban  family 
woe  that  inflamed  their  imaginations  and  spurred  them 
onward.  They  were  plodding  away  at  the  Greek  Tes¬ 
tament,  immersed  in  a  chapter  of  the  idiomatic  and 
difficult  Epistle  to  the  Hebrews. 

The  dog -day  sun  in  its  decline  reached  the  low 
ceiling  with  slanting  sides,  and  the  shadows  of  the 
great  goat’s-willow  swayed  and  interchanged  upon  the 
walls  like  a  spectral  army  manoeuvring.  The  open 
casement  which  admitted  the  remoter  sounds  now 
brought  the  voice  of  some  one  close  at  hand.  It  was 
their  sister,  a  pretty  girl  of  fourteen,  who  stood  in  the 
court  below. 

“  I  can  see  the  tops  of  your  heads  !  What’s  the 
use  of  staying  up  there?  I  like  you  not  to  go  out 
with  the  street  -  boys  ;  but  do  come  and  play  with 
me !” 

They  treated  her  as  an  inadequate  interlocutor,  and 


A  TRAGEDY  OF  TWO  AMBITIONS 


45 


put  her  off  with  some  slight  word.  She  went  away  dis¬ 
appointed.  Presently  there  was  a  dull  noise  of  heavy 
footsteps  at  the  side  of  the  house,  and  one  of  the 
brothers  sat  up.  “  I  fancy  I  hear  him  coming,”  he 
murmured,  his  eyes  on  the  window. 

A  man  in  the  light  drab  clothes  of  an  old-fashioned 
country  tradesman  approached  from  round  the  corner, 
reeling  as  he  came.  The  elder  son  flushed  with  anger, 
rose  from  his  books,  and  descended  the  stairs.  The 
younger  sat  on,  till,  after  the  lapse  of  a  few  minutes, 
his  brother  re-entered  the  room, 

“  Did  Rosa  see  him  ?” 

“  No.” 

“  Nor  anybody  ?” 

“  No.” 

“  What  have  you  done  with  him  ?” 

“  He’s  in  the  straw-shed.  I  got  him  in  with  some 
trouble,  and  he  has  fallen  asleep.  I  thought  this  vould 
be  the  explanation  of  his  absence  !  No  stones  dressed 
for  Miller  Kench,  the  great  wheel  of  the  saw -mill 
waiting  for  new  float-boards,  even  the  poor  folk  not 
able  to  get  their  wagons  wheeled.” 

“  What  is  the  use  of  poring  over  this  !”  said  the 
younger,  shutting  up  Donnegan’s  Lexicon  with  a  slap. 
“  Oh,  if  we  had  only  been  able  to  keep  mother’s  seven 
hundred  pounds,  what  we  could  have  done  !” 

“  How  well  she  had  estimated  the  sum  necessary ! 
Three  hundred  and  fifty  each,  she  thought.  And  I 
have  no  doubt  that  we  could  have  done  it  on  that  with 
care.” 

This  loss  of  the  seven  hundred  pounds  was  the  sharp 
thorn  of  their  crown.  It  was  a  sum  which  their  mother 
had  amassed  with  great  exertion  and  self-denial,  by 
adding  to  a  chance  legacy  such  other  small  amounts 
as  she  could  lay  hands  on  from  time  to  time  ;  and  she 
had  intended  with  the  hoard  to  indulge  the  dear  wish 


46 


life’s  little  ironies 


of  her  heart— -that  of  sending  her  sons,  Joshua  and 
Cornelius,  to  one  of  the  universities,  having  been  in¬ 
formed  that  from  three  hundred  to  three  hundred  and 
fifty  each  might  carry  them  through  their  terms  with 
such  great  economy  as  she  knew  she  could  trust  them 
to  practise.  But  she  had  died  a  year  or  two  before 
this  time,  worn  out  by  too  keen  a  strain  towards  these 
ends  ;  and  the  money,  coming  unreservedly  into  the 
hands  of  their  father,  had  been  nearly  dissipated. 
With  its  exhaustion  went  all  opportunity  and  hope  of 
a  university  degree  for  the  sons. 

“  It  drives  me  mad  when  I  think  of  it,”  said  Joshua, 
the  elder.  “And  here  we  work  and  work  in  our  own 
bungling  way,  and  the  utmost  we  can  hope  for  is  a 
term  of  years  as  national  school-masters,  and  possible 
admission  to  a  theological  college,  and  ordination  as 
despised  licentiates.” 

The  anger  of  the  elder  was  reflected  as  simple  sad¬ 
ness  in  the  face  of  the  other.  “We  can  preach  the 
gospel  as  well  without  a  hood  on  our  surplices  as  with 
one,”  he  said,  with  feeble  consolation. 

“  Preach  the  gospel — true, ’’said  Joshua,  with  a  slight 
pursing  of  mouth.  “  But  we  can’t  rise.” 

“  Let  us  make  the  best  of  it,  and  grind  on.” 

The  other  was  silent,  and  they  drearily  bent  over 
their  books  again. 

The  cause  of  all  this  gloom,  the  millwright  Hal- 
borough,  now  snoring  in  the  shed,  had  been  a  thriving 
master-machinist,  notwithstanding  his  free  and  careless 
disposition,  till  a  taste  for  a  more  than  adequate  quan¬ 
tity  of  strong  liquor  took  hold  of  him ;  since  when  his 
habits  had  interfered  with  his  business  sadly.  Already 
millers  went  elsewhere  for  their  gear,  and  only  one 
set  of  hands  was  now  kept  going,  though  there  were 
formerly  two.  Already  he  found  a  difficulty  in  meet¬ 
ing  his  men  at  the  week’s  end,  and  though  they  had 


A  TRAGEDY  OF  TWO  AMBITIONS 


47 


been  reduced  in  number,  there  was  barely  enough  work 
to  do  for  those  who  remained. 

The  sun  dropped  lower  and  vanished,  the  shouts 
of  the  village  children  ceased  to  resound,  darkness 
cloaked  the  students’  bedroom,  and  all  the  scene  out¬ 
wardly  breathed  peace.  None  knew  of  the  fevered 
youthful  ambitions  that  throbbed  in  two  breasts  with¬ 
in  the  quiet  creeper-covered  walls  of  the  millwright’s 
house. 

In  a  few  months  the  brothers  left  the  village  of  their 
birth  to  enter  themselves  as  students  in  a  training 
college  for  school-masters  ;  first  having  placed  their 
young  sister  Rosa  under  as  efficient  a  tuition  at  a 
fashionable  watering-place  as  the  means  at  their  dis¬ 
posal  could  command. 


II 

A  man  in  semi -clerical  dress  was  walking  along 
the  road  which  led  from  the  railway  station  into  a 
provincial  town.  As  he  walked  he  read  persistently, 
only  looking  up  once  now  and  then  to  see  that  he  was 
keeping  on  the  foot- track  and  to  avoid  other  passen¬ 
gers.  At  those  moments,  whoever  had  known  the 
former  students  at  the  millwright’s  would  have  per¬ 
ceived  that  one  of  them,  Joshua  Halborough,  was  the 
peripatetic  reader  here. 

What  had  been  simple  force  in  the  youth’s  face  was 
energized  judgment  in  the  man’s.  His  character  was 
gradually  writing  itself  out  in  his  countenance.  That 
he  was  watching  his  own  career  with  deeper  and 
deeper  interest,  that  he  continually  “heard  his  days 
before  him,”  and  cared  to  hear  little  else,  might  have 
been  hazarded  from  what  was  seen  there.  His  ambi- 


48 


life’s  little  ironies 

tions  were,  in  truth,  passionate,  yet  controlled  ;  so 
that  the  germs  of  many  more  plans  than  ever  blos¬ 
somed  to  maturity  had  place  in  him  ;  and  forward 
visions  were  kept  purposely  in  twilight  to  avoid  dis¬ 
traction. 

Events  so  far  had  been  encouraging.  Shortly  after 
assuming  the  mastership  of  his  first  school  he  had  ob¬ 
tained  an  introduction  to  the  bishop  of  a  diocese  far 
from  his  native  county,  who  had  looked  upon  him  as  a 
promising  young  man  and  taken  him  in  hand.  He  was 
now  in  the  second  year  of  his  residence  at  the  theo¬ 
logical  college  of  the  cathedral  town,  and  would  soon 
be  presented  for  ordination. 

He  entered  the  town,  turned  into  a  back  street, 
and  then  into  a  yard,  keeping  his  book  before  him 
till  he  set  foot  under  the  arch  of  the  latter  place. 
Hound  the  arch  was  written  “  National  School,”  and 
the  stone-work  of  the  jambs  was  worn  away  as  nothing 
but  boys  and  the  waves  of  the  ocean  will  wear  it.  He 
was  soon  amid  the  sing-song  accents  of  the  scholars. 

His  brother  Cornelius,  who  was  the  school-master 
here,  laid  down  the  pointer  with  which  he  was  directing 
attention  to  the  capes  of  Europe,  and  came  forward. 

“That’s  his  brother  Jos!”  whispered  one  of  the 
sixth -standard  boys.  “He’s  going  to  be  a  pa’son. 
He’s  now  at  college.” 

“Corney  is  going  to  be  one,  too,  when  he’s  saved 
enough  money,”  said  another. 

After  greeting  his  brother,  whom  he  had  not  seen 
for  several  months,  the  junior  began  to  explain  his 
system  of  teaching  geography. 

But  Halborough  the  elder  took  no  interest  in  the 
subject.  “  How  about  your  own  studies  ?”  he  asked. 
“  Did  you  get  the  books  I  sent  ?” 

Cornelius  had  received  them,  and  he  related  what 
he  was  doing. 


A  TRAGEDY  OF  TWO  AMBITIONS 


49 


“Mind  you  work  in  the  morning.  What  time  do 
you  get  up  ?” 

The  younger  replied:  “Half-past  five.” 

“  Half-past  four  is  not  a  minute  too  soon  this  time 
of  the  year.  There  is  no  time  like  the  morning  for 
construing.  I  don’t  know  why,  but  when  I  feel  even 
too  dreary  to  read  a  novel  I  can  translate — there  is 
something  mechanical  about  it,  I  suppose.  Now,  Cor¬ 
nelius,  you  are  rather  behindhand,  and  have  some  heavy 
reading  before  you  if  you  mean  to  get  out  of  this  next 
Christmas.” 

“I  am  afraid  I  have.” 

“We  must  soon  sound  the  bishop.  I  am  sure  you 
will  get  a  title  without  difficulty  when  he  has  heard 
all.  The  subdean,  the  principal  of  my  college,  says 
that  the  best  plan  will  be  for  you  to  come  there  when 
his  lordship  is  present  at  an  examination,  and  he’ll  get 
you  a  personal  interview  with  him.  Mind  you  make 
a  good  impression  upon  him.  I  found  in  my  case  that 
that  was  everything,  and  doctrine  almost  nothing. 
You’ll  do  for  a  deacon,  Corney,  if  not  for  a  priest.” 

The  younger  remained  thoughtful.  “  Have  you 
heard  from  Rosa  lately  ?”  he  asked ;  “  I  had  a  letter 
this  morning.” 

“Yes.  The  little  minx  writes  rather  too  often. 
She  is  homesick  —  though  Brussels  must  be  an  attrac¬ 
tive  place  enough.  But  she  must  make  the  most  of 
her  time  over  there.  I  thought  a  year  would  be 
enough  for  her,  after  that  high-class  school  at  Sand- 
bourne;  but  I  have  decided  to  give  her  two,  and  make 
a  good  job  of  it,  expensive  as  the  establishment  is.” 

Their  two  rather  harsh  faces  had  softened  directly 
they  began  to  speak  of  their  sister,  whom  they  loved 
more  ambitiously  than  they  loved  themselves. 

“But  where  is  the  money  to  come  from,  Joshua?” 

“I  have  already  got  it.”  He  looked  round,  and 

4. 


50 


life's  little  ironies 


finding  that  some  boys  were  near  withdrew  a  few 
steps.  “  I  have  borrowed  it  at  five  per  cent,  from  the 
farmer  who  used  to  occupy  the  farm  next  our  field. 
You  remember  him.” 

“  But  about  paying  him  ?” 

“  I  shall  pay  him  by  degrees  out  of  my  stipend. 
No,  Cornelius,  it  was  no  use  to  do  the  thing  by  halves. 
She  promises  to  be  a  most  attractive,  not  to  say  beau¬ 
tiful,  girl.  I  have  seen  that  for  years;  and  if  her  face 
is  not  her  fortune,  her  face  and  her  brains  together 
will  be,  if  I  observe  and  contrive  aright.  That  she 
should  be,  every  inch  of  her,  an  accomplished  and 
refined  woman,  was  indispensable  for  the  fulfilment 
of  her  destiny,  and  for  moving  onward  and  upward 
with  us;  and  she’ll  do  it,  you  will  see.  I’d  half  starve 
myself  rather  than  take  her  away  from  that  school 
now.” 

They  looked  round  the  school  they  were  in.  To 
Cornelius  it  was  natural  and  familiar  enough;  but  to 
Joshua,  with  his  limited  human  sympathies,  who  had 
just  dropped  in  from  a  superior  sort  of  place,  the  sight 
jarred  unpleasantly,  as  being  that  of  something  he 
had  left  behind.  “  I  shall  be  glad  when  you  are  out 
of  this,”  he  said,  “  and  in  your  pulpit,  and  well  through 
your  first  sermon.” 

“You  may  as  well  say, inducted  into  my  fat  living, 
while  you  are  about  it.” 

“  Ah,  well  ;  don’t  think  lightly  of  the  Church. 
There’s  a  fine  work  for  any  man  of  energy  in  the 
Church,  as  you’ll  find,”  he  said,  fervidly.  “Torrents 
of  infidelity  to  be  stemmed,  new  views  of  old  sub¬ 
jects  to  be  expounded,  truths  in  spirit  to  be  substitu¬ 
ted  for  truths  in  the  letter.  .  .  .”  He  lapsed  into  rev¬ 
erie  with  the  vision  of  his  career,  persuading  himself 
that  it  was  ardor  for  Christianity  which  spurred  him 
on,  and  not  pride  of  place.  He  had  shouldered  a  body 


A.  TRAGEDY  OF  TWO  AMBITIONS 


51 


of  doctrine,  and  was  prepared  to  defend  it  tooth  and 
nail,  solely  for  the  honor  and  glory  that  warriors 
win. 

“If  the  Church  is  elastic,  and  stretches  to  the  shape 
of  the  time,  she’ll  last,  I  suppose,”  said  Cornelius.  “If 
not —  Only  think,  I  bought  a  copy  of  Paley’s  Evi¬ 
dences,  best  edition,  broad  margins,  excellent  preserva¬ 
tion,  at  a  book-stall  the  other  day  for— -ninepence;  and 
I  thought  that  at  this  rate  Christianity  must  be  in 
rather  a  bad  way.” 

“No,  no!”  said  the  other,  almost  angrily.  “It  only 
shows  that  such  defences  are  no  longer  necessary. 
Men’s  eyes  can  see  the  truth  without  extraneous  as¬ 
sistance.  Besides,  we  are  in  for  Christianity,  and  must 
stick  to  her,  whether  or  no.  I  am  just  now  going 
right  through  Pusey’s  Library  of  the  Fathers .” 

“  You’ll  be  a  bishop,  Joshua,  before  you  have  done!” 

“Ah!”  said  the  other,  bitterly,  shaking  his  head. 
“Perhaps  I  might  have  been — -I  might  have  been! 
But  where  is  my  D.D.  or  LL.D.  ?  and  how  be  a  bish¬ 
op  without  that  kind  of  appendage?  Archbishop  Til- 
lotson  was  the  son  of  a  Sowerby  clothier,  but  he  was 
sent  to  Clare  College.  To  hail  Oxford  or  Cambridge 
as  alma  mater  is  not  for  me — for  us !  My  God  !  when 
I  think  of  what  we  should  have  been — what  fair  prom¬ 
ise  has  been  blighted  by  that  cursed,  worthless — ” 

“  Hush,  hush  ! . .  .  But  I  feel  it,  too,  as  much  as  you. 
I  have  seen  it  more  forcibly  lately.  You  would  have 
obtained  your  degree  long  before  this  time — possibly 
fellowship  —  and  I  should  have  been  on  my  way  to 
mine.” 

“Don’t  talk  of  it,”  said  the  other.  “We  must  do 
the  best  we  can.” 

They  looked  out  of  the  window  sadly  through  the 
dusty  panes,  so  high  up  that  only  the  sky  was  visible. 
By  degrees  the  haunting  trouble  loomed  again,  and 


52 


life’s  little  ironies 


Cornelius  broke  the  silence  with  a  whisper:  “He  has 
called  on  me !” 

The  living  pulses  died  on  Joshua’s  face,  which  grew 
arid  as  a  clinker.  “  When  was  that?”  he  asked,  quickly. 

“  Last  week.” 

“How  did  he  get  here— so  many  miles?” 

“  Came  by  railway.  He  came  to  ask  for  money.” 

“  Ah  !” 

“  He  says  he  will  call  on  you.” 

Joshua  replied  resignedly.  The  theme  of  their  con¬ 
versation  spoiled  his  buoyancy  for  that  afternoon.  He 
returned  in  the  evening,  Cornelius  accompanying  him 
to  the  station;  but  he  did  not  read  in  the  train  which 
took  him  back  to  the  Fountall  Theological  College,  as 
he  had  done  on  the  way  out.  That  ineradicable  trouble 
still  remained  as  a  squalid  spot  in  the  expanse  of  his 
life.  He  sat  with  the  other  students  in  the  cathedral 
choir  next  day  ;  and  the  recollection  of  the  trouble 
obscured  the  purple  splendor  thrown  by  the  panes 
upon  the  floor. 

It  was  afternoon.  All  was  as  still  in  the  close  as  a 
cathedral  green  can  be  between  the  Sunday  services, 
and  the  incessant  cawing  of  the  rooks  was  the  only 
sound.  Joshua  Halborough  had  finished  his  ascetio 
lunch,  and  had  gone  into  the  library,  where  he  stood 
for  a  few  moments  looking  out  of  the  large  window 
facing  the  green.  He  saw  walking  slowly  across  it  a 
man  in  a  fustian  coat  and  a  battered  white  hat  with  a 
much-ruffled  nap,  having  upon  his  arm  a  tall  gypsy 
woman  wearing  long  brass  ear-rings.  The  man  was 
staring  quizzically  at  the  west  front  of  the  cathedral, 
and  Halborough  recognized  in  him  the  form  and  feat¬ 
ures  of  his  father.  Who  the  woman  was  he  knew  not. 
Almost  as  soon  as  Joshua  became  conscious  of  these 
things,  the  subdean,  who  was  also  the  principal  of  the 
college,  and  of  whom  the  young  man  stood  in  more 


A  TRAGEDY  OF  TWO  AMBITIONS 


53 


awe  than  of  the  bishop  himself,  emerged  from  the 
gate  and  entered  a  path  across  the  close.  The  pail 
met  the  dignitary,  and  to  Joshua’s  horror  his  father 
turned  and  addressed  the  subdean. 

What  passed  between  them  he  could  not  tell.  But 
as  he  stood  in  a  cold  sweat  he  saw  his  father  place  his 
hand  familiarly  on  the  subdean’s  shoulder;  the  shrink¬ 
ing  response  of  the  latter,  and  his  quick  withdrawal, 
told  his  feeling.  The  woman  seemed  to  say  nothing, 
but  when  the  subdean  had  passed  by  they  came  on 
towards  the  college  gate. 

Halborough  flew  along  the  corridor  and  out  at  a 
side  door,  so  as  to  intercept  them  before  they  could 
reach  the  front  entrance,  for  which  they  were  making. 
He  caught  them  behind  a  clump  of  laurel. 

“By  Jerry,  here’s  the  very  chap  !  Well,  you’re  a 
fine  fellow,  Jos,  never  to  send  your  father  as  much  as 
a  twist  o’  baccy  on  such  an  occasion,  and  to  leave  him 
to  travel  all  these  miles  to  find  ye  out !” 

“First,  who  is  this?”  said  Joshua  Halborough,  with 
pale  dignity,  waving  his  hand  towards  the  buxom 
woman  with  the  great  ear-rings. 

“Hammy, the  mis’ess  !  Your  step-mother.  Didn’t 
you  know  I’d  married  ?  She  helped  me  home  from 
market  one  night,  and  we  came  to  terms,  and  struck 
the  bargain.  Didn’t  we,  Selinar  ?” 

“  Oi,  by  the  great  Lord  an’  we  did  !”  simpered  the 
lady. 

“Well,  what  sort  of  a  place  is  this  you  are  living 
in  ?”  asked  the  millwright.  “  A  kind  of  house  of  cor¬ 
rection,  apparently.” 

Joshua  listened  abstractedly,  his  features  set  to  res¬ 
ignation.  Sick  at  heart  he  was  going  to  ask  them  if 
they  were  in  want  of  any  necessary,  any  meal,  when 
his  father  cut  him  short  by  saying,  “  Why,  we’ve  called 
to  ask  ye  to  come  round  and  take  pot- luck  with  us  at 


54 


life’s  little  ironies 


the  Cock  and  Bottle,  where  we’ve  put  up  for  the  day, 
on  our  way  to  see  mis’ess’s  friends  at  Binegar  Fair, 
where  they’ll  be  lying  under  canvas  for  a  night  or 
two.  As  for  the  victuals  at  the  Cock  I  can’t  testify 
to  ’em  at  all ;  but  for  the  drink,  they’ve  the  rarest 
drop  of  Old  Tom  that  I’ve  tasted  for  many  a  year.” 

“  Thanks ;  but  I  am  a  teetotaler,  and  I  have 
lunched,”  said  Joshua,  who  could  fully  believe  his 
father’s  testimony  to  the  gin  from  the  odor  of  his 
breath.  “You  see  we  have  to  observe  regular  habits 
here,  and  I  couldn’t  be  seen  at  the  Cock  and  Bottle 
just  now.” 

“  Oh,  dammy,  then  don’t  come,  your  reverence.  Per¬ 
haps  you  won’t  mind  standing  treat  for  those  who  can 
be  seen  there.” 

“Not  a  penny,” said  the  younger,  firmly.  “  You’ve 
had  enough  already.” 

“Thank  you  for  nothing.  By -the -bye,  who  was 
that  spindle  -  legged,  shoe  -  buckled  parson  feller  we 
met  bv  now  ?  He  seemed  to  think  we  should  poison 
him.” 

Joshua  remarked  coldly  that  it  was  the  principal  of 
his  college,  guardedly  inquiring,  “Did  you  tell  him 
whom  you  were  come  to  see  ?” 

His  father  did  not  reply.  He  and  his  strapping 
gypsy  wife — if  she  were  his  wife  —  stayed  no  longer, 
and  disappeared  in  the  direction  of  the  High  Street. 
Joshua  Halborough  went  back  to  the  library.  De¬ 
termined  as  was  his  nature,  he  wept  hot  tears  upon 
the  books,  and  was  immeasurably  more  wretched  that 
afternoon  than  the  unwelcome  millwright.  In  the 
evening  he  sat  down  and  wrote  a  letter  to  his  brother, 
in  which,  after  stating  what  had  happened,  and  expa¬ 
tiating  upon  this  new  disgrace  in  the  gypsy  wife,  he 
propounded  a  plan  for  raising  money  sufficient  to  in¬ 
duce  the  couple  to  emigrate  to  Canada.  “  It  is  our 


A  TBAGEDY  OF  TWO  AMBITIONS 


55 


only  chance,”  he  said,  “  The  case  as  it  stands  is  mad¬ 
dening.  For  a  successful  painter,  sculptor,  musician, 
author,  who  takes  society  by  storm,  it  is  no  drawback; 
it  is  sometimes  even  a  romantic  recommendation  to 
hail  from  outcasts  and  profligates.  But  for  a  clergy¬ 
man  of  the  Church  of  England !  Cornelius,  it  is  fatal! 
To  succeed  in  the  Church,  people  must  believe  in  you, 
first  of  all,  as  a  gentleman,  secondly  as  a  man  of  means, 
thirdly  as  a  scholar,  fourthly  as  a  preacher,  fifthly 
perhaps  as  a  Christian — but  always  first  as  a  gentle¬ 
man,  with  all  their  heart  and  soul  and  strength.  I 
would  have  faced  the  fact  of  being  a  small  machinist’s 
son,  and  have  taken  my  chance,  if  he’d  been  in  any 
sense  respectable  and  decent.  The  essence  of  Chris¬ 
tianity  is  humility,  and  by  the  help  of  God  I  would 
have  brazened  it  out.  But  this  terrible  vagabondage 
and  disreputable  connection  !  If  he  does  not  accept 
my  terms  and  leave  the  country,  it  will  extinguish  us 
and  kill  me.  For  how  can  we  live  and  relinquish  our 
high  aim  and  bring  down  our  dear  sister  Rosa  to  the 
level  of  a  gypsy’s  step-daughter?” 


Ill 

There  was  excitement  in  the  parish  of  Narrobourne 
one  day.  The  congregation  had  just  come  out  from 
morning  service,  and  the  whole  conversation  was  of 
the  new  curate,  Mr.  Halborough,  who  had  officiated 
for  the  first  time,  in  the  absence  of  the  rector. 

Never  before  had  the  feeling  of  the  villagers  ap¬ 
proached  a  level  which  could  be  called  excitement  on 
such  a  matter  as  this.  The  droning  which  had  been 
the  rule  in  that  quiet  old  place  for  a  century  seemed 
ended  at  last.  They  repeated  the  text  to  each  other 


56 


life’s  little  ironies 


as  a  refrain:  “O  Lord,  be  thou  my  helper!”  Not 
within  living  memory  till  to-day  had  the  subject  of 
the  sermon  formed  the  topic  of  conversation  from  the 
church  door  to  church-yard  gate,  to  the  exclusion  of 
personal  remarks  on  those  who  had  been  present,  and 
on  the  week’s  news  in  general. 

The  thrilling  periods  of  the  preacher  hung  about 
their  minds  all  that  day.  The  parish  being  steeped 
in  indifferentism,  it  happened  that  when  the  youths 
and  maidens,  middle  -  aged  and  old  people,  who  had 
attended  church  that  morning,  recurred  as  by  a  fas¬ 
cination  to  what  Halborougli  had  said,  they  did  so 
more  or  less  indirectly,  and  even  with  the  subterfuge 
of  a  light  laugh  that  was  not  real,  so  great  was  their 
shyness  under  the  novelty  of  their  sensations. 

What  was  more  curious  than  that  these  unconven¬ 
tional  villagers  should  have  been  excited  by  a  preacher 
of  a  new  school  after  forty  years  of  familiarity  with 
the  old  hand  who  had  had  charge  of  their  souls,  was 
the  effect  of  Halborough’s  address  upon  the  occupants 
of  the  manor-house  pew,  including  the  owner  of  the 
estate.  These  thought  they  knew  how  to  discount 
the  mere  sensational  sermon,  how  to  minimize  flash 
oratory  to  its  bare  proportions  ;  but  they  had  yielded 
like  the  rest  of  the  assembly  to  the  charm  of  the  new¬ 
comer. 

Mr.  Fellmer,  the  land-owner,  was  a  young  widower 
whose  mother,  still  in  the  prime  of  life,  had  returned 
to  her  old  position  in  the  family  mansion  since  the 
death  of  her  son’s  wife  in  the  year  after  her  marriage, 
at  the  birth  of  a  fragile  little  girl.  From  the  date  of 
his  loss  to  the  present  time,  Fellmer  had  led  an  inac¬ 
tive  existence  in  the  seclusion  of  the  parish  ;  a  lack  of 
motive  seemed  to  leave  him  listless.  He  had  gladly 
reinstated  his  mother  in  the  gloomy  house,  and  his 
main  occupation  now  lay  in  stewarding  his  estate, 


A  TBAGEDY  OF  TWO  AMBITIONS 


57 


which  was  not  large.  Mrs.  Fellmer,  who  had  sat  be¬ 
side  him  under  Halborough  this  morning,  was  a  cheer¬ 
ful,  straightforward  woman,  who  did  her  marketing 
and  her  alms-giving  in  person ;  was  fond  of  old-fash¬ 
ioned  flowers,  and  walked  about  the  village  on  very- 
wet  days  visiting  the  parishioners.  These,  the  only- 
two  great  ones  of  Narrobourne,  were  impressed  by- 
Joshua’s  eloquence  as  much  as  the  cottagers. 

Halborough  had  been  briefly  introduced  to  them  on 
his  arrival  some  days  before,  and,  their  interest  being 
kindled,  they  waited  a  few  moments  till  he  came  out 
of  the  vestry,  to  walk  down  the  church-yard  path  with 
him.  Mrs.  Fellmer  spoke  warmly  of  the  sermon,  of 
the  good -fortune  of  the  parish  in  his  advent,  and 
hoped  he  had  found  comfortable  quarters. 

Halborough,  faintly  flushing,  said  that  he  had  ob¬ 
tained  very  fair  lodgings  in  the  roomy  house  of  a 
farmer,  whom  he  named. 

She  feared  he  wTould  find  it  very  lonely,  especially 
in  the  evenings,  and  hoped  they  would  see  a  good 
deal  of  him.  When  would  he  dine  with  them  ?  Could 
he  not  come  that  day — it  must  be  so  dull  for  him  the 
first  Sunday  evening  in  country  lodgings  ? 

Halborough  replied  that  it  would  give  him  much 
pleasure,  but  that  he  feared  he  must  decline.  “  I  am 
not  altogether  alone,”  he  said,  “  My  sister,  who  has 
just  returned  from  Brussels,  and  who  felt,  as  you  do, 
that  I  should  be  rather  dismal  by  myself,  has  accom¬ 
panied  me  hither  to  stay  a  few  days  till  she  has  put 
my  rooms  in  order  and  set  me  going.  She  was  too 
fatigued  to  come  to  church,  and  is  waiting  for  me 
now  at  the  farm.” 

“  Oh,  but  bring  your  sister— that  will  be  still  bet¬ 
ter  !  I  shall  be  delighted  to  know  her.  How  I  wish 
I  had  been  aware !  Do  tell  her,  please,  that  we  had 
no  idea  of  her  presence.” 


58 


life’s  little  ironies 


Halborough  assured  Mrs.  Fellmer  that  he  would 
certainly  bear  the  message ;  but  as  to  her  coming  he 
was  not  so  sure.  The  real  truth  was,  however,  that 
the  matter  would  be  decided  by  him,  Rosa  having  an 
almost  filial  respect  for  his  wishes.  But  he  was  un¬ 
certain  as  to  the  state  of  her  wardrobe,  and  had  de¬ 
termined  that  she  should  not  enter  the  manor-house  at 
a  disadvantage  that  evening,  when  there  would  prob¬ 
ably  be  plenty  of  opportunities  in  the  future  of  her 
doing  so  becomingly. 

He  walked  to  the  farm  in  long  strides.  This,  then, 
was  the  outcome  of  his  first  morning’s  work  as  curate 
here.  Things  had  gone  fairly  well  with  him.  He  had 
been  ordained;  he  was  in  a  comfortable  parish,  where 
he  would  exercise  almost  sole  supervision,  the  rector 
being  infirm.  He  had  made  a  deep  impression  at 
starting,  and  the  absence  of  a  hood  seemed  to  have 
done  him  no  harm.  Moreover,  by  considerable  per¬ 
suasion  and  payment,  his  father  and  the  dark  woman 
had  been  shipped  off  to  Canada,  where  they  were  not 
likely  to  interfere  greatly  with  his  interests. 

Rosa  came  out  to  meet  him.  “Ah!  you  should 
have  gone  to  church  like  a  good  girl,”  he  said. 

“Yes — I  wished  I  had  afterwards.  But  I  do  so 
hate  church  as  a  rule  that  even  your  preaching  was 
underestimated  in  my  mind.  It  was  too  bad  of  me !” 

The  girl  who  spoke  thus  playfully  was  fair,  tall, 
and  sylph-like,  in  a  muslin  dress,  and  with  just  the 
coquettish  desinvolture  which  an  English  girl  brings 
home  from  abroad,  and  loses  again  after  a  few  months 
of  native  life.  Joshua  was  the  reverse  of  playful;  the 
world  was  too  important  a  concern  for  him  to  indulge 
in  light  moods.  He  told  her  in  decided,  practical 
phraseology  of  the  invitation. 

“Now,  Rosa,  we  must  go — that’s  settled — if  you’ve 
a  dress  that  can  be  made  fit  to  wear  all  on  the  hop  like 


A  TRAGEDY  OF  TWO  AMBITIONS 


59 


this.  You  didn’t,  of  course,  think  of  bringing  an 
evening  dress  to  such  an  out-of-the-way  place  ?” 

But  Rosa  had  come  from  the  wrong  city  to  be 
caught  napping  in  those  matters.  “  Yes,  I  did,”  said 
she.  “  One  never  knows  what  may  turn  up.” 

“  Well  done!  Then  off  we  go  at  seven.” 

The  evening  drew  on,  and  at  dusk  they  started  on 
foot,  Rosa  pulling  up  the  edge  of  her  skirt  under  her 
cloak  out  of  the  way  of  the  dews,  so  that  it  formed  a 
great  wind-bag  all  round  her,  and  carrying  her  satin 
shoes  under  her  arm.  Joshua  would  not  let  her  wait 
till  she  got  in-doors  before  changing  them,  as  she  pro¬ 
posed,  but  insisted  on  her  performing  that  operation 
under  a  tree,  so  that  they  might  enter  as  if  they  had 
not  walked.  He  was  nervously  formal  about  such 
trifles,  while  Rosa  took  the  whole  proceeding — walk, 
dressing,  dinner,  and  all — as  a  pastime.  To  Joshua  it 
was  a  serious  step  in  life. 

A  more  unexpected  kind  of  person  for  a  curate’s 
sister  was  never  presented  at  a  dinner.  The  surprise 
of  Mrs.  Fellmer  -was  unconcealed.  She  had  looked 
forward  to  a  Dorcas,  or  Martha,  or  Rhoda  at  the  out¬ 
side,  and  a  shade  of  misgiving  crossed  her  face.  It 
was  possible  that,  had  the  young  lady  accompanied 
her  brother  to  church,  there  would  have  been  no  din¬ 
ing  at  Karrobourne  House  that  day. 

Rot  so  with  the  young  widower,  her  son.  He  re¬ 
sembled  a  sleeper  who  had  awaked  in  a  summer  noon 
expecting  to  find  it  only  dawn.  He  could  scarcely 
help  stretching  his  arms  and  yawning  in  their  faces, 
so  strong  was  his  sense  of  being  suddenly  aroused  to 
an  unforeseen  thing.  When  they  had  sat  down  to  table 
he  at  first  talked  to  Rosa  somewhat  with  the  air  of  a 
ruler  in  the  land;  but  the  woman  lurking  in  the  ac¬ 
quaintance  soon  brought  him  to  his  level,  and  the  girl 
from  Brussels  saw  him  looking  at  her  mouth,  her 


60 


life’s  little  ironies 


hands,  her  contour,  as  if  he  could  not  quite  compre¬ 
hend  how  they  got  created  ;  then  he  dropped  into  the 
more  satisfactory  stage  which  discerns  no  particulars. 

He  talked  but  little;  she  said  much.  The  homeli¬ 
ness  of  the  Fellmers,  to  her  view,  though  they  were 
regarded  with  such  awe  down  here,  quite  disembar¬ 
rassed  her.  The  squire  had  become  so  unpractised, 
had  dropped  so  far  into  the  shade  during  the  last  year 
or  so  of  his  life,  that  he  had  almost  forgotten  what 
the  world  contained  till  this  evening  reminded  him. 
His  mother,  after  her  first  moments  of  doubt,  appeared 
to  think  that  he  must  be  left  to  his  own  guidance,  and 
gave  her  attention  to  Joshua. 

With  all  his  foresight  and  doggedness  of  aim,  the 
result  of  that  dinner  exceeded  Halborough’s  expecta¬ 
tions.  In  weaving  his  ambitions  he  had  viewed  his 
sister  Rosa  as  a  slight,  bright  thing  to  be  helped  into 
notice  by  his  abilities;  but  it  now  began  to  dawn  upon 
him  that  the  physical  gifts  of  nature  to  her  might  do 
more  for  them  both  than  nature’s  intellectual  gifts  to 
himself.  While  he  was  patiently  boring  the  tunnel 
Rosa  seemed  about  to  fly  over  the  mountain. 

He  wrote  the  next  day  to  his  brother,  now  occupy¬ 
ing  his  own  old  rooms  in  the  theological  college,  tell¬ 
ing  him  exultingly  of  the  unanticipated  debut  of  Rosa 
at  the  manor-house.  The  next  post  brought  him  a 
reply  of  congratulation,  dashed  with  the  counteract¬ 
ing  intelligence  that  his  father  did  not  like  Canada — 
that  his  wife  had  deserted  him,  which  made  him  feel 
so  dreary  that  he  thought  of  returning  home. 

In  his  recent  satisfaction  at  his  own  successes  Joshua 
Halborough  had  wellnigh  forgotten  his  chronic  trou¬ 
ble —  latterly  screened  by  distance.  But  it  now  re¬ 
turned  upon  him  ;  he  saw  more  in  this  brief  announce¬ 
ment  than  his  brother  seemed  to  see.  It  was  the  cloud 
no  bigger  than  a  man’s  hand. 


A  TRAGEDY  OF  TWO  AMBITIONS 


61 


IV 

The  following  December,  a  day  or  two  before 
Christmas,  Mrs.  Fellmer  and  her  son  were  walking  up 
and  down  the  broad  gravel  path  which  bordered  the 
east  front  of  the  house.  Till  within  the  last  half-hour 
the  morning  had  been  a  drizzling  one,  and  they  had 
just  emerged  for  a  short  turn  before  luncheon. 

“You  see,  dear  mother,”  the  son  was  saying,  “it  is 
the  peculiarity  of  my  position  which  makes  her  appear 
to  me  in  such  a  desirable  light.  When  you  consider 
how  I  have  been  crippled  at  starting,  how  my  life  has 
been  maimed  ;  that  I  feel  anything  like  publicity  dis¬ 
tasteful,  that  I  have  no  political  ambition,  and  that 
my  chief  aim  and  hope  lie  in  the  education  of  the  lit¬ 
tle  thing  Annie  has  left  me,  you  must  see  how  desira¬ 
ble  a  wife  like  Miss  Halborough  would  be,  to  prevent 
my  becoming  a  mere  vegetable.” 

“  If  you  adore  her,  I  suppose  you  must  have  her,” 
replied  his  mother,  with  dry  indirectness.  “  But  you’ll 
find  that  she  will  not  be  content  to  live  on  here  as 
you  do,  giving  her  whole  mind  to  a  young  child.” 

“  That’s  just  where  we  differ.  Her  very  disquali¬ 
fication,  that  of  being  a  nobody,  as  you  call  it,  is  her 
recommendation  in  my  eyes.  Her  lack  of  influential 
connections  limits  her  ambition.  From  what  I  know 
of  her,  a  life  in  this  place  is  all  that  she  would  wish 
for.  She  would  never  care  to  go  outside  the  park 
gates  if  it  were  necessary  to  stay  within.” 

“Being  in  love  with  her,  Albert,  and  meaning  to 
marry  her,  you  invent  your  practical  reasons  to  make 
the  case  respectable.  Well,  do  as  you  will;  I  have 
no  authority  over  you,  so  why  should  you  consult  me? 
You  mean  to  propose  on  this  very  occasion,  no  doubt. 
Don’t  you,  now  ?” 


62 


life’s  little  ironies 


“  By  no  means.  I  am  merely  revolving  the  idea  in 
my  mind.  If  on  further  acquaintance  she  turns  out 
to  be  as  good  as  she  has  hitherto  seemed- — well,  I  shall 
see.  Admit  now,  that  you  like  her.” 

“  I  readily  admit  it.  She  is  very  captivating  at  first 
sight.  But  as  a  step-mother  to  your  child  !  You  seem 
mighty  anxious,  Albert,  to  get  rid  of  me  !” 

“Not  at  all.  And  I  am  not  so  reckless  as  you 
think.  I  don’t  make  up  my  mind  in  a  hurry.  But 
the  thought  having  occurred  to  me,  I  mention  it  to 
you  at  once,  mother.  If  you  dislike  it,  say  so.” 

“  I  don’t  say  anything.  I  will  try  to  make  the  best 
of  it  if  you  are  determined.  When  does  she  come  ?” 

“  To-morrow.” 

All  this  time  there  were  great  preparations  in  train 
at  the  curate’s,  who  was  now  a  householder.  Rosa, 
whose  two  or  three  weeks’  stay  on  two  occasions  ear¬ 
lier  in  the  year  had  so  affected  the  squire,  was  coming 
again,  and  at  the  same  time  her  younger  brother  Cor¬ 
nelius,  to  make  up  a  family  party.  Rosa,  who  jour¬ 
neyed  from  the  Midlands,  could  not  arrive  till  late  in 
the  evening,  but  Cornelius  was  to  get  there  in  the  af¬ 
ternoon,  Joshua  going  out  to  meet  him  in  his  walk 
across  the  fields  from  the  railway. 

Everything  being  ready  in  Joshua’s  modest  abode 
he  started  on  his  way,  his  heart  buoyant  and  thank¬ 
ful,  if  ever  it  was  in  his  life.  He  was  of  such  good 
report  himself  that  his  brother’s  path  into  holy  orders 
promised  to  be  unexpectedly  easy  ;  and  he  longed  to 
compare  experiences  with  him,  even  though  there  was 
on  hand  a  more  exciting  matter  still.  From  his  youth 
he  had  held  that,  in  old-fashioned  country  places,  the 
Church  conferred  social  prestige  up  to  a  certain  point 
at  a  cheaper  price  than  any  other  profession  or  pur¬ 
suit  ;  and  events  seemed  to  be  proving  him  right. 

He  had  walked  about  half  an  hour  when  he  saw 


A  TRAGEDY  OF  TWO  AMBITIONS 


63 


Cornelius  coming  along  the  path,  and  in  a  few  min¬ 
utes  the  two  brothers  met.  The  experiences  of  Cor¬ 
nelius  had  been  less  immediately  interesting  than 
those  of  Joshua,  but  his  personal  position  was  satis¬ 
factory,  and  there  was  nothing  to  account  for  the 
singularly  subdued  manner  that  he  exhibited,  which 
at  first  Joshua  set  down  to  the  fatigue  of  over¬ 
study;  and  he  proceeded  to  the  subject  of  Rosa’s 
arrival  in  the  evening,  and  the  probable  consequences 
of  this  her  third  visit.  “  Before  next  Easter  she’ll 
be  his  wife,  my  boy,”  said  Joshua,  with  grave  exulta¬ 
tion. 

Cornelius  shook  his  head.  “She  comes  too  late,” 
he  returned. 

“  What  do  you  mean  ?” 

“Look  here.”  He  produced  the  Fountall  paper, 
and  placed  his  finger  on  a  paragraph,  which  Joshua 
read.  It  appeared  under  the  report  of  Petty  Sessions, 
and  was  a  commonplace  case  of  disorderly  conduct,  in 
which  a  man  was  sent  to  prison  for  seven  days  for 
breaking  windows  in  that  town. 

“Well?”  said  Joshua. 

“  It  happened  during  an  evening  that  I  was  in  the 
street ;  and  the  offender  is  our  father.” 

“  Hot — how — I  sent  him  more  money  on  his  prom¬ 
ising  to  stay  in  Canada?” 

“He  is  home,  safe  enough.”  Cornelius  in  the  same 
gloomy  tone  gave  the  remainder  of  his  information. 
He  had  witnessed  the  scene,  unobserved  of  his  father, 
and  had  heard  him  say  that  he  was  on  his  way  to  see 
his  daughter,  who  was  going  to  marry  a  rich  gentle¬ 
man.  The  only  good-fortune  attending  the  untoward 
incident  was  that  the  millwright’s  name  had  been 
printed  as  Joshua  Alborough. 

“  Beaten  !  W e  are  to  be  beaten  on  the  eve  of  our 
expected  victory !”  said  the  elder  brother.  “  How 


64 


life’s  little  ironies 


did  he  guess  that  Rosa  was  likely  to  marry  ?  Good 
Heaven  !  Cornelius,  you  seem  doomed  to  bring  bad 
news  always,  do  you  not  ?” 

“  I  do,”  said  Cornelius.  “  Poor  Rosa  !” 

It  was  almost  in  tears,  so  great  was  their  heart-sick¬ 
ness  and  shame,  that  the  brothers  walked  the  remain¬ 
der  of  the  way  to  Joshua’s  dwelling.  In  the  evening 
they  set  out  to  meet  Rosa,  bringing  her  to  the  village 
in  a  fly;  and  when  she  had  come  into  the  house,  and 
was  sitting  down  with  them,  they  almost  forgot  their 
secret  anxiety  in  contemplating  her,  who  knew  nothing 
about  it. 

Next  day  the  Fellmers  came,  and  the  two  or  three 
days  after  that  were  a  lively  time.  That  the  squire 
was  yielding  to  his  impulses — making  up  his  mind — 
there  could  be  no  doubt.  On  Sunday  Cornelius  read 
the  lessons  and  Joshua  preached.  Mrs.  Fellmer  was 
quite  maternal  towards  Rosa,  and  it  appeared  that 
she  had  decided  to  welcome  the  inevitable  with  a  good 
grace.  The  pretty  girl  was  to  spend  yet  another  after¬ 
noon  with  the  elder  lady,  superintending  some  parish 
treat  at  the  house  in  observance  of  Christmas,  and 
afterwards  to  stay  on  to  dinner,  her  brothers  to  fetch 
her  in  the  evening.  They  were  also  invited  to  dine, 
but  they  could  not  accept  owing  to  an  engagement. 

The  engagement  was  of  a  sombre  sort.  They  were 
going  to  meet  their  father,  who  would  that  day  be  re¬ 
leased  from  Fountall  Jail,  and  try  to  persuade  him 
to  keep  away  from  Narrobourne.  Every  exertion  was 
to  be  made  to  get  him  back  to  Canada,  to  his  old  home 
in  the  Midlands — anywhere,  so  that  he  would  not  im¬ 
pinge  disastrously  upon  their  courses,  and  blast  their 
sister’s  prospect  of  the  auspicious  marriage  which  was 
just  then  hanging  in  the  balance. 

As  soon  as  Rosa  had  been  fetched  away  by  her 
friends  at  the  manor-house  her  brothers  started  on 


A  TRAGEDY  OF  TWO  AMBITIONS  65 

their  expedition,  without  waiting  for  dinner  or  tea. 
Cornelius,  to  whom  the  millwright  always  addressed 
his  letters  when  he  wrote  any,  drew  from  his  pocket 
and  reread  as  he  walked  the  curt  note  which  had  led 
to  this  journey  being  undertaken ;  it  was  despatched 
by  their  father  the  night  before,  immediately  upon  his 
liberation,  and  stated  that  he  was  setting  out  for  Narro- 
bourne  at  the  moment  of  writing  ;  that  having  no 
money  he  would  be  obliged  to  walk  all  the  way;  that 
he  calculated  on  passing  through  the  intervening  town 
of  Ivell  about  six  on  the  following  day,  where  he 
should  sup  at  the  Castle  Inn,  and  where  he  hoped  they 
would  meet  him  with  a  carriage-and-pair,  or  some  other 
such  conveyance,  that  he  might  not  disgrace  them  by 
arriving  like  a  tramp. 

“  That  sounds  as  if  he  gave  a  thought  to  our  posi¬ 
tion,”  said  Cornelius. 

Joshua  knew  the  satire  that  lurked  in  the  paternal 
words,  and  said  nothing.  Silence  prevailed  during 
the  greater  part  of  their  journey.  The  lamps  were 
lighted  in  Ivell  when  they  entered  the  streets,  and 
Cornelius,  who  was  quite  unknown  in  this  neighbor¬ 
hood,  and  who,  moreover,  was  not  in  clerical  attire, 
decided  that  he  should  be  the  one  to  call  at  the  Castle 
Inn.  Here,  in  answer  to  his  inquiry  under  the  dark¬ 
ness  of  the  archway,  they  told  him  that  such  a  man  as 
he  had  described  left  the  house  about  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  earlier,  after  making  a  meal  in  the  kitchen  settle. 
He  was  rather  the  worse  for  liquor. 

“Then,”  said  Joshua,  wThen  Cornelius  joined  him 
outside  with  this  intelligence,  “  we  must  have  met  and 
passed  him.  And  now  that  I  think  of  it,  we  did  meet 
some  one  who  was  unsteady  in  his  gait  under  the  trees 
on  the  other  side  of  Hendcome  Kill,  where  it  was  too 
dark  to  see  him.” 

They  rapidly  retraced  their  steps  ;  but  for  a  long 
5 


06 


life’s  little  ironies 


stretch  of  the  way  home  could  discern  nobody.  When, 
however,  they  had  gone  about  three-quarters  of  the 
distance,  they  became  conscious  of  an  irregular  foot¬ 
fall  in  front  of  them,  and  could  see  a  whitish  figure  in 
the  gloom.  They  followed  dubiously.  The  figure  met 
another  wajrfarer — the  single  one  that  had  been  en¬ 
countered  upon  this  lonely  road — and  they  distinctly 
heard  him  ask  the  way  to  Narrobourne.  The  stranger 
replied — what  was  quite  true — that  the  nearest  way 
was  by  turning  in  at  the  stile  by  the  next  bridge,  and 
following  the  foot-path  which  branched  thence  across 
the  meadows. 

When  the  brothers  reached  the  stile  they  also  en¬ 
tered  the  path,  but  did  not  overtake  the  subject  of  their 
worry  till  they  had  crossed  two  or  three  meads,  and 
the  lights  from  Narrobourne  manor-house  were  visible 
before  them  through  the  trees.  Their  father  was  no 
longer  walking  ;  he  was  seated  against  the  wet  bank 
of  an  adjoining  hedge.  Observing  their  forms  he 
shouted,  “I’m  going  to  Narrobourne;  who  may  you 
be  ?” 

They  wTent  up  to  him,  and  revealed  themselves, 
reminding  him  of  the  plan  which  he  had  himself 
proposed  in  his  note,  that  they  should  meet  him  at 
Ivell. 

“By  Jerry,  I’d  forgot  it !”  he  said.  “Well,  what 
do  you  want  me  to  do  ?”  His  tone  was  distinctly 
quarrelsome. 

A  long  conversation  followed,  which  became  im- 
bittered  at  the  first  hint  from  them  that  he  should  not 
come  to  the  village.  The  millwright  drew  a  quart 
bottle  from  his  pocket,  and  challenged  them  to  drink 
if  they  meant  friendly  and  called  themselves  men. 
Neither  of  the  two  had  touched  alcohol  for  years,  but 
for  once  they  thought  it  best  to  accept,  so  as  not  to 
needlessly  provoke  him. 


A  TRAGEDY  OF  TWO  AMBITIONS  * 


67 


“  What’s  in  it  ?”  said  Joshua. 

“  A  drop  of  weak  gin-and-water.  It  won’t  hurt  ye. 
Drink  from  the  bottle.”  Joshua  did  so,  and  his  father 
pushed  up  the  bottom  of  the  vessel  so  as  to  make  him 
swallow  a  good  deal  in  spite  of  himself.  It  went  down 
into  his  stomach  like  molten  lead. 

“  Ha,  ha,  that’s  right!”  said  old  Halborough.  “  But 
’twas  raw  spirit — ha,  ha!” 

“  Why  should  you  take  me  in  so!”  said  Joshua,  los¬ 
ing  his  self-command,  try  as  he  would  to  keep  calm. 

“  Because  you  took  me  in,  my  lad,  in  banishing  me 
to  that  cursed  country  under  pretence  that  it  was  for 
my  good.  You  were  a  pair  of  hypocrites  to  say  so. 
It  was  done  to  get  rid  of  me — no  more  nor  less.  But, 
by  Jerry,  I’m  a  match  for  ye  now!  I’ll  spoil  your 
souls  for  preaching.  My  daughter  is  going  to  be  mar¬ 
ried  to  the  squire  here.  I’ve  heard  the  news — I  saw 
it  in  a  paper  !” 

“  It  is  premature — ” 

“  I  know  it  is  true ;  and  I’m  her  father,  and  I  shall 
give  her  away,  or  there’ll  be  a  hell  of  a  row,  I  can  as¬ 
sure  ye  !  Is  that  where  the  gennleman  lives  ?” 

Joshua  Halborough  writhed  in  impotent  despair. 
Fellmer  had  not  yet  positively  declared  himself,  his 
mother  was  hardly  won  round;  a  scene  with  their  fa¬ 
ther  in  the  parish  would  demolish  as  fair  a  palace  of 
hopes  as  was  ever  builded.  The  millwright  rose.  “  If 
that’s  where  the  squire  lives  I’m  going  to  call.  Just 
arrived  from  Canady  with  her  fortune — ha,  ha!  I  wish 
no  harm  to  the  gennleman,  and  the  gennleman  will 
wish  no  harm  to  me.  But  I  like  to  take  my  place  in 
the  family,  and  stand  upon  my  rights,  and  lower  peo¬ 
ple’s  pride  !” 

“You’ve  succeeded  already!  Where’s  that  woman 
you  took  with  you — ” 

“  Woman  !  She  was  my  wife  as  lawful  as  the  Con- 


68 


life’s  little  ironies 


stitution— -a  sight  more  lawful  than  your  mother  was 
till  some  time  after  you  were  born  !” 

Joshua  had  for  many  years  before  heard  whispers 
that  his  father  had  cajoled  his  mother  in  their  early 
acquaintance,  and  had  made  somewhat  tardy  amends  ; 
but  never  from  his  father’s  lips  till  now.  It  was  the 
last  stroke,  and  he  could  not  bear  it.  He  sank  back 
against  the  hedge.  “  It  is  over !”  he  said.  “  He  ruins 
us  all !” 

The  millwright  moved  on,  waving  his  stick  tri¬ 
umphantly,  and  the  two  brothers  stood  still.  They 
could  see  his  drab  figure  stalking  along  the  path,  and 
over  his  head  the  lights  from  the  conservatory  of  Nar- 
robourne  House,  inside  which  Albert  Fellmer  might 
possibly  be  sitting  with  Rosa  at  that  moment,  holding 
her  hand,  and  asking  her  to  share  his  home  with  him. 

The  staggering  whitey- brown  form,  advancing  to 
put  a  blot  on  all  this,  had  been  diminishing  in  the 
shade  ;  and  now  suddenly  disappeared  beside  a  wear. 
There  was  the  noise  of  a  flounce  in  the  water. 

“  He  has  fallen  in  !”  said  Cornelius,  starting  for¬ 
ward  to  run  for  the  place  at  which  his  father  had  van¬ 
ished. 

Joshua,  awaking  from  the  stupefied  reverie  into 
which  he  had  sunk,  rushed  to  the  other’s  side  before 
he  had  taken  ten  steps.  “Stop,  stop,  what  are  you 
thinking  of  ?”  he  whispered,  hoarsely,  grasping  Cor¬ 
nelius’s  arm. 

“  Pulling  him  out  !” 

“  Yes,  yes — so  am  I.  But — wait  a  moment — ” 

“  But,  Joshua !” 

“Her  life  and  happiness,  you  know  —  Cornelius — 
and  your  reputation  and  mine — and  our  chance  of  ris¬ 
ing  together,  all  three — ” 

He  clutched  his  brother’s  arm  to  the  bone ;  and  as 
they  stood  breathless  the  splashing  and  floundering  in 


A  TRAGEDY  OF  TWO  AMBITIONS 


69 


the  wear  continued  ;  over  it  they  saw  the  hopeful 
lights  from  the  manor-house  conservatory  winking 
through  the  trees  as  their  bare  branches  waved  to 
and  fro. 

The  floundering  and  splashing  grew  weaker,  and 
they  could  hear  gurgling  words  :  “  Help — I’m  drown- 
ded  !  Rosie — Rosie  !” 

“We’ll  go — we  must  save  him.  Oh,  Joshua !” 

“Yes,  yes,  we  must!” 

Still  they  did  not  move,  but  waited,  holding  each 
other,  each  thinking  the  same  thought.  Weights  of 
lead  seemed  to  be  aflixed  to  their  feet,  which  would 
no  longer  obey  their  wills.  The  mead  became  silent. 
Over  it  they  fancied  they  could  see  figures  moving  in 
the  conservatory.  The  air  up  there  seemed  to  emit 
gentle  kisses. 

Cornelius  started  forward  at  last,  and  Joshua  almost 
simultaneously.  Two  or  three  minutes  brought  them 
to  the  brink  of  the  stream.  At  first  they  could  see 
nothing  in  the  water,  though  it  was  not  so  deep  nor 
the  night  so  dark  but  that  their  father’s  light  kersey¬ 
mere  coat  would  have  been  visible  if  he  had  lain  at 
the  bottom.  Joshua  looked  this  way  and  that. 

“He  has  drifted  into  the  culvert,”  he  said. 

Below  the  foot-bridge  of  the  wear  the  stream  sud¬ 
denly  narrowed  to  half  its  width,  to  pass  under  a  bar¬ 
rel  arch  or  culvert  constructed  for  wagons  to  cross 
into  the  middle  of  the  mead  in  hay-making  time.  It 
being  at  present  the  season  of  high  water  the  arch  was 
full  to  the  crown,  against  which  the  ripples  clucked 
every  now  and  then.  At  this  point  he  had  just 
caught  sight  of  a  pale  object  slipping  under.  In  a 
moment  it  was  gone. 

They  went  to  the  lower  end,  but  nothing  emerged. 
For  a  long  time  they  tried  at  both  ends  to  effect  some 
communication  with  the  interior,  but  to  no  purpose. 


70 


life’s  little  ironies 


“We  ought  to  have  come  sooner!”  said  the  con¬ 
science-stricken  Cornelius,  when  they  were  quite  ex¬ 
hausted,  and  dripping  wet. 

“  I  suppose  we  ought,”  replied  Joshua,  heavily.  He 
perceived  his  father’s  walking  -  stick  on  the  bank  ; 
hastily  picking  it  up  he  stuck  it  into  the  mud  among 
the  sedge.  Then  they  wTent  on. 

“  Shall  we  —  say  anything  about  this  accident  ?” 
whispered  Cornelius  as  they  approached  the  door  of 
Joshua’s  house. 

“What’s  the  use?  It  can  do  no  good.  We  must 
wait  until  he  is  found.” 

They  went  in-doors  and  changed  their  clothes;  after 
which  they  started  for  the  manor-house,  reaching  it 
about  ten  o’clock.  Besides  their  sister  there  were 
only  three  guests  :  an  adjoining  land-owner  and  his 
wife,  and  the  infirm  old  rector. 

Rosa,  although  she  had  parted  from  them  so  re¬ 
cently,  grasped  their  hands  in  an  ecstatic,  brimming, 
joyful  manner,  as  if  she  had  not  seen  them  for  years. 
“You  look  pale,”  she  said. 

The  brothers  answered  that  they  had  had  a  long 
walk,  and  were  somewhat  tired.  Everybody  in  the 
room  seemed  charged  full  with  some  sort  of  interest¬ 
ing  knowledge  ;  the  squire’s  neighbor  and  his  wife 
looked  wisely  around,  and  Fellmer  himself  played 
the  part  of  host  with  a  preoccupied  bearing  which  ap¬ 
proached  fervor.  They  left  at  eleven,  not  accepting 
the  carriage  offered,  the  distance  being  so  short  and 
the  roads  dry.  The  squire  came  rather  farther  into 
the  dark  with  them  than  he  need  have  done,  and 
wished  Rosa  good -night  in  a  mysterious  manner, 
slightly  apart  from  the  rest. 

When  they  were  walking  along  Joshua  said,  with  a 
desperate  attempt  at  joviality,  “  Rosa,  what’s  going 
on  ?” 


A.  TRAGEDY  OF  TWO  AMBITIONS 


71 


“Oh,  I — ”  she  began,  between  a  gasp  and  a  bound, 
“  He—” 

“  Never  mind — if  it  disturbs  you.” 

She  was  so  excited  that  she  could  not  speak  con¬ 
nectedly  at  first,  the  practised  air  which  she  had 
brought  home  with  her  having  disappeared.  Calming 
herself  she  added,  “I  am  not  disturbed,  and  nothing 
has  happened.  Only  he  said  he  wanted  to  ask  me 
something,  some  day ;  and  I  said  never  mind  that 
now.  He  hasn’t  asked  yet,  and  is  coming  to  speak  to 
you  about  it.  He  would  have  done  so  to-night,  only 
I  asked  him  not  to  be  in  a  hurry.  But  he  will  come 
to-morrow,  I  am  sure  !” 


Y 

It  was  summer-time,  six  month’s  later,  and  mowers 
and  hay-makers  were  at  work  in  the  meads.  The 
manor-house,  being  opposite  them,  frequently  formed 
a  peg  for  conversation  during  these  operations ;  and 
the  doings  of  the  squire,  and  the  squire’s  young  wife, 
the  curate’s  sister  — who  was  at  present  the  admired 
of  most  of  them,  and  the  interest  of  all  — met  with 
their  due  amount  of  criticism. 

Rosa  was  happy,  if  ever  woman  could  be  said  to  be 
so.  She  had  not  learned  the  fate  of  her  father,  and 
sometimes  wondered — perhaps  with  a  sense  of  relief — 
why  he  did  not  w7rite  to  her  from  his  supposed  home 
in  Canada.  Her  brother  Joshua  had  been  presented 
to  a  living  in  a  small  town,  shortly  after  her  marriage, 
and  Cornelius  had  thereupon  succeeded  to  the  vacant 
curacy  of  Narrobourne. 

These  two  had  awaited  in  deep  suspense  the  dis¬ 
covery  of  their  father’s  body,  and  yet  the  discovery 


72 


life’s  little  ironies 


had  not  been  made.  Every  day  they  expected  a  man 
or  a  boy  to  run  up  from  the  meads  with  the  intelli¬ 
gence;  but  he  had  never  come.  Days  had  accumu¬ 
lated  to  weeks  and  months ;  the  wedding  had  come 
and  gone;  Joshua  had  tolled  and  read  himself  in  at 
his  new  parish,  and  never  a  shout  of  amazement  over 
the  millwright’s  remains. 

But  now,  in  June,  when  they  were  mowing  the 
meads,  the  hatches  had  to  be  drawn  and  the  water 
let  out  of  its  channels  for  the  convenience  of  the 
mowers.  It  was  thus  that  the  discovery  was  made. 
A  man,  stooping  low  with  his  scythe,  caught  a  view 
of  the  culvert  lengthwise,  and  saw  something  entan¬ 
gled  in  the  recently  bared  weeds  of  its  bed.  A  day 
or  two  after  there  was  an  inquest;  but  the  body  was 
unrecognizable.  Fish  and  flood  had  been  busy  with 
the  millwright ;  he  had  no  watch  or  marked  article 
which  could  be  identified,  and  a  verdict  of  the  ac¬ 
cidental  drowning  of  a  person  unknown  settled  the 
matter. 

As  the  body  was  found  in  Narrobourne  parish,  there 
it  had  to  be  buried.  Cornelius  wrote  to  Joshua,  beg¬ 
ging  him  to  come  and  read  the  service,  or  to  send 
some  one ;  he  himself  could  not  do  it.  Rather  than 
let  in  a  stranger  Joshua  came,  and  silently  scanned 
the  coroner’s  order  handed  him  by  the  undertaker: 

“  I,  Henry  Giles,  Coroner  for  the  Mid-Division  of 
Outer  Wessex,  do  hereby  order  the  Burial  of  the  Body 
now  shown  to  the  Inquest  Jury  as  the  Body  of  an 
Adult  Male  Person  Unknown  .  .  .”  etc. 

Joshua  Halborough  got  through  the  service  in  some 
way,  and  rejoined  his  brother  Cornelius  at  his  house. 
Neither  accepted  an  invitation  to  lunch  at  their  sis¬ 
ter’s  ;  they  wished  to  discuss  parish  matters  together. 
In  the  afternoon  she  came  down,  though  they  had  al¬ 
ready  called  on  her,  and  had  not  expected  to  see  her 


A  TRAGEDY  OF  TWO  AMBITIONS 


73 


again.  Her  bright  eyes,  brown  hair,  flowery  bonnet, 
lemon-colored  gloves,  and  flush  beauty  were  like  an 
irradiation  into  the  apartment,  which  they  in  their 
gloom  could  hardly  bear. 

“ I  forgot  to  tell  you,”  she  said,  “of  a  curious  thing 
which  happened  to  me  a  month  or  two  before  my  mar¬ 
riage — something  which  I  have  thought  may  have  had 
a  connection  with  the  accident  to  the  poor  man  you 
have  buried  to-day.  It  was  on  that  evening  I  was  at 
the  manor-house  waiting  for  you  to  fetch  me  ;  I  was 
in  the  winter-garden  with  Albert,  and  we  were  sitting 
silent  together,  when  we  fancied  we  heard  a  cry.  We 
opened  the  door,  and  while  Albert  ran  to  fetch  his  hat, 
leaving  me  standing  there,  the  cry  was  repeated,  and 
my  excited  senses  made  me  think  I  heard  my  own 
name.  When  Albert  came  back  all  was  silent,  and  we 
decided  that  it  was  only  a  drunken  shout,  and  not  a 
cry  for  help.  We  both  forgot  the  incident,  and  it 
never  has  occurred  to  me  till  since  the  funeral  to-day 
that  it  might  have  been  this  stranger’s  cry.  The  name 
of  course  was  only  fancy,  or  he  might  have  had  a  wife 
or  child  with  a  name  something  like  mine,  poor  man!” 

When  she  was  gone  the  brothers  were  silent  till 
Cornelius  said,  “Now  mark  this,  Joshua.  Sooner  or 
later  she’ll  know.” 

“  How  ?” 

“  From  one  of  us.  Do  you  think  human  hearts  are 
iron-cased  safes,  that  you  suppose  we  can  keep  this 
secret  forever?” 

“  Yes,  I  think  they  are,  sometimes,”  said  Joshua. 

“  No*  It  will  out.  W  e  shall  tell.” 

“  What,  and  ruin  her — kill  her?  Disgrace  her  chil¬ 
dren,  and  pull  down  the  fvhole  auspicious  house  of 
Fellmer  about  our  ears?  l^o!  May  I — drown  where 
he  was  drowned  before  I  do  it!  Never,  never.  Sure- 
ly  you  can  say  the  same,  Cornelius  ?” 


74 


life’s  little  ironies 


Cornelius  seemed  fortified,  and  no  more  was  said. 
For  a  long  time  after  that  day  he  did  not  see  Joshua, 
and  before  the  next  year  was  out  a  son  and  heir  was 
born  to  the  Fellmers.  The  villagers  rang  the  three 
bells  every  evening  for  a  week  and  more,  and  were 
made  merry  by  Mr.  Fellmer’s  ale;  and  when  the  chris¬ 
tening  came  on  Joshua  paid  Narrobourne  another 
visit. 

Among  all  the  people  who  assembled  on  that  day 
the  brother  clergymen  were  the  least  interested.  Their 
minds  were  haunted  by  a  spirit  in  kerseymere.  In  the 
evening  they  walked  together  in  the  fields. 

“She’s  all  right,”  said  Joshua.  “But  here  are  you 
doing  journey-work,  Cornelius,  and  likely  to  continue 
at  it  till  the  end  of  the  day,  as  far  as  I  can  see.  I, 
too,  with  my  petty  living — what  am  I,  after  all? ...  To 
tell  the  truth,  the  Church  is  a  poor  forlorn  hope  for 
people  without  influence,  particularly  when  their  en¬ 
thusiasm  begins  to  flag.  A  social  regenerator  has  a 
better  chance  outside,  where  he  is  unhampered  by 
dogma  and  tradition.  As  for  me,  I  would  rather  have 
gone  on  mending  mills,  with  my  crust  of  bread  and 
liberty.” 

Almost  automatically  they  had  bent  their  steps 
along  the  margin  of  the  river;  they  now  paused. 
They  were  standing  on  the  brink  of  the  well-known 
wear.  There  were  the  hatches,  there  was  the  culvert; 
they  could  see  the  pebbly  bed  of  the  stream  through 
the  pellucid  water.  The  notes  of  the  church -bells 
were  audible,  still  jangled  by  the  enthusiastic  vil¬ 
lagers. 

“It  was  there  I  hid  his  walking-stick,”  said  Joshua, 
looking  towards  the  sedge.  The  next  moment,  dur¬ 
ing  a  passing  breeze,  something  flashed  white  on  the 
spot  they  regarded. 

From  the  sedge  rose  a  straight  little  silver-poplar, 


A  TRAGEDY  OF  TWO  AMBITIONS 


75 


and  it  was  the  leaves  of  this  sapling  which  caused  the 
flicker  of  whiteness. 

“His  walking-stick  has  grown !”  said  Cornelius.  “  It 
was  a  rough  one — cut  from  the  hedge,  I  remember.” 

At  every  puff  of  wind  the  tree  turned  white,  till 
they  could  not  bear  to  look  at  it ;  and  they  walked 
away. 

“  I  see  him  every  night,”  Cornelius  murmured.  .  .  . 
“Ah,  we  read  our  Hebrews  to  little  account,  Jos !  'Yke- 
fXEivt  (Travpoy ,  alff^yyrjg  Karacppoyrj^ag.  To  have  endured 
the  cross,  despising  the  shame — there  lay  greatness! 
But  now  I  often  feel  that  I  should  like  to  put  an  end 
to  trouble  here  in  this  self-same  spot.” 

“  I  have  thought  of  it  myself,”  said  Joshua. 

“  Perhaps  we  shall,  some  day,”  murmured  his 
brother. 

“Perhaps,”  said  Joshua,  moodily. 

With  that  contingency  to  consider  in  the  silence 
of  their  nights  and  days  they  bent  their  steps  home¬ 
ward. 


December,  1888. 


ON  THE  WESTERN  CIRCUIT 


I 

The  man  who  played  the  disturbing  part  in  the  two 
quiet  lives  hereafter  depicted — no  great  man,  in  any 
sense,  by-the-way — first  had  knowledge  of  them  on  an 
October  evening  in  the  city  of  Melchester.  He  had 
been  standing  in  the  close,  vainly  endeavoring  to  gain 
amid  the  darkness  a  glimpse  of  the  most  homogeneous 
pile  of  mediaeval  architecture  in  England,  which  tow¬ 
ered  and  tapered  from  the  damp  and  level  sward  in 
front  of  him.  While  he  stood  the  presence  of  the 
cathedral  walls  was  revealed  rather  by  the  ear  than 
by  the  eyes  ;  he  could  not  see  them,  but  they  reflected 
sharply  a  roar  of  sound  which  entered  the  close  by  a 
street  leading  from  the  city  square,  and,  falling  upon 
the  building,  was  flung  back  upon  him. 

He  postponed  till  the  morrow  his  attempt  to  exam¬ 
ine  the  deserted  edifice,  and  turned  his  attention  to 
the  noise.  It  was  compounded  of  steam  barrel-organs, 
the  clanging  of  gongs,  the  ringing  of  hand-bells,  the 
clack  of  rattles,  and  the  undistinguishable  shouts  of 
men.  A  lurid  light  hung  in  the  air  in  the  direction  of 
the  tumult.  Thitherward  he  went,  passing  under  the 
arched  gateway,  along  a  straight  street,  and  into  the 
square. 

He  might  have  searched  Europe  over  for  a  greater 


ON  THE  WESTERN  CIRCUIT 


77 


contrast  between  juxtaposed  scenes.  The  spectacle 
was  that  of  the  eighth  chasm  of  the  Inferno  as  to  color 
and  flame,  and,  as  to  mirth,  a  development  of  the  Ho¬ 
meric  heaven.  A  smoky  glare,  of  the  complexion  of 
brass  filings,  ascended  from  the  fiery  tongues  of  innu¬ 
merable  naphtha  lamps  affixed  to  booths,  stalls,  and 
other  temporary  erections  which  crowded  the  spacious 
market-square.  In  front  of  this  irradiation  scores  of 
human  figures,  more  or  less  in  profile,  were  darting 
athwart  and  across,  up,  down,  and  around,  like  gnats 
against  a  sunset. 

Their  motions  were  so  rhythmical  that  they  seemed 
to  be  moved  by  machinery.  And  it  presently  ap¬ 
peared  that  they  were  moved  by  machinery  indeed, 
the  figures  being  those  of  the  patrons  of  swings,  see¬ 
saws,  flying-leaps,  above  all  of  the  three  steam  round¬ 
abouts  which  occupied  the  centre  of  the  position.  It 
was  from  the  latter  that  the  din  of  steam-organs  came. 

Throbbing  humanity  in  full  light  was,  on  second 
thoughts,  better  than  ecclesiology  in  the  dark.  The 
young  man,  lighting  a  short  pipe,  and  putting  his 
hat  on  one  side  and  one  hand  in  his  pocket,  to  throw 
himself  into  harmony  with  his  new  environment,  drew 
near  to  the  largest  and  most  patronized  of  the  steam 
circuses,  as  the  roundabouts  were  called  by  their  own¬ 
ers.  This  was  one  of  brilliant  finish,  and  it  was  now 
in  full  revolution.  The  musical  instrument  around 
which  and  to  whose  tones  the  riders  revolved,  directed 
its  trumpet-mouths  of  brass  upon  the  young  man,  and 
the  long  plate-glass  mirrors  set  at  angles,  which  re¬ 
volved  with  the  machine,  flashed  the  gyrating  person¬ 
ages  and  hobby-horses  kaleidoscopically  into  his  eyes. 

It  could  now  be  seen  that  he  was  unlike  the  major¬ 
ity  of  the  crowd.  A  gentlemanly  young  fellow,  one 
of  the  species  found  in  large  towns  only,  and  London 
particularly,  built  on  delicate  lines,  well,  though  not 


I 


78  life’s  little  ironies 

fashionably  dressed,  he  appeared  to  belong  to  the  pro- 
fessional  class;  he  had  nothing  square  or  practical 
about  his  look,  much  that  w4s  curvilinear  and  sen¬ 
suous.  Indeed,  some  would  have  called  him  a  man 
not  altogether  typical  of  the  middle-class  male  of  a 
century  wherein  sordid  ambition  is  the  master -pas¬ 
sion  that  seems  to  be  taking  the  time  -  honored  place 
of  love. 

The  revolving  figures  passed  before  his  eyes  with 
an  unexpected  and  quiet  grace  in  a  throng  whose 
natural  movements  did  not  suggest  gracefulness  or 
quietude  as  a  rule.  By  some  contrivance  there  was 
imparted  to  each  of  the  hobby-horses  a  motion  which 
was  really  the  triumph  and  perfection  of  roundabout 
inventiveness  —  a  galloping  rise  and  fall,  so  timed 
that,  of  each  pair  of  steeds,  one  was  on  the  spring 
while  the  other  was  on  the  pitch.  The  riders  were 
quite  fascinated  by  these  equine  undulations  in  this 
most  delightful  holiday  game  of  our  times.  There 
were  riders  as  young  as  six,  and  as  old  as  sixty  years, 
with  every  age  between.  At  first  it  was  difficult  to 
catch  a  personality,  but  by-and-by  the  observer’s  eyes 
centred  on  the  prettiest  girl  out  of  the  several  pretty 
ones  revolving. 

It  was  not  that  one  with  the  light  frock  and  light 
hat  whom  he  had  been  at  first  attracted  by ;  no,  it 
was  the  one  with  the  black  cape,  gray  skirt,  light 
gloves,  and  —  no,  not  even  she,  but  the  one  behind 
her  ;  she  with  the  crimson  skirt,  dark  jacket,  brown 
hat,  and  brown  gloves.  Unmistakably  that  was  the 
prettiest  girl. 

Having  finally  selected  her,  this  idle  spectator  stud¬ 
ied  her  as  well  as  he  was  able  during  each  of  her 
brief  transits  across  his  visual  field.  She  was  abso¬ 
lutely  unconscious  of  everything  save  the  act  of  rid- 
vng  :  her  features  were  rapt  in  an  ecstatic  dreami- 


ON  THE  WESTERN  CIRCUIT 


79 


ness  ;  for  the  moment  she  did  not  know  her  age  or 
her  history  or  her  lineaments,  much  less  her  troubles. 
He  himself  was  full  of  vague  latter-day  glooms  and 
popular  -melancholies,  and  it  was  a  refreshing  sensa¬ 
tion  to  behold  this  young  thing,  then  and  there,  abso¬ 
lutely  as  happy  as  if  she  were  in  a  Paradise. 

Dreading  the  moment  when  the  inexorable  stoker, 
grimly  lurking  behind  the  glittering  rococo -work, 
should  decide  that  this  set  of  riders  had  had  their 
pennyworth,  and  bring  the  whole  concern  of  steam- 
engine,  horses,  mirrors,  trumpets,  drums,  cymbals, 
and  such  like  to  pause  and  silence,  he  waited  for  her 
every  reappearance,  glancing  indifferently  over  the 
intervening  forms,  including  the  two  plainer  girls,  the 
old  woman  and  child,  the  two  youngsters,  the  newly- 
married  couple,  the  old  man  with  a  clay  pipe,  the 
sparkish  youth  with  a  ring,  the  young  ladies  in  the 
chariot,  the  pair  of  journeyman  carpenters,  and  others, 
till  his  select  country  beauty  followed  on  again  in  her 
place.  He  had  never  seen  a  fairer  product  of  nature, 
and  at  each  round  she  made  a  deeper  mark  in  his  sen¬ 
timents.  The  stoppage  then  came,  and  the  sighs  of 
the  riders  were  audible. 

He  moved  round  to  the  place  at  which  he  reckoned 
she  would  alight  ;  but  she  retained  her  seat.  The 
empty  saddles  began  to  refill,  and  she  plainly  was 
deciding  to  have  another  turn.  The  young  man  drew 
up  to  the  side  of  her  steed,  and  pleasantly  asked  her 
if  she  had  enjoyed  her  ride. 

“  Oh  yes  !”  she  said,  with  dancing  eyes.  “  It  has 
been  quite  unlike  anything  I  have  ever  felt  in  my  life 
before  !” 

It  was  not  difficult  to  fall  into  conversation  with 
her.  Unreserved  —  too  unreserved — by  nature,  she 
was  not  experienced  enough  to  be  reserved  by  art, 
and  after  a  little  coaxing  she  answered  his  remark# 


80 


life’s  little  ironies 


readily.  She  had  come  to  live  in  Melchester  from  a 
village  on  the  Great  Plain,  and  this  was  the  first  time 
that  she  had  ever  seen  a  steam-circus  ;  she  could  not 
understand  how  such  wonderful  machines  were  made. 
She  had  come  to  the  city  on  the  invitation  of  Mrs.  Harn- 
ham,  who  had  taken  her  into  her  household  to  train 
her  as  a  servant  if  she  showed  any  aptitude.  Mrs. 
Harnham  was  a  young  lady  who  before  she  married 
had  been  Miss  Edith  White,  living  in  the  country  near 
the  speaker’s  cottage  ;  she  was  now  very  kind  to  her 
through  knowing  her  in  childhood  so  well.  She  was 
even  taking  the  trouble  to  educate  her.  Mrs.  Harn¬ 
ham  was  the  only  friend  she  had  in  the  world,  and 
being  without  children  had  wished  to  have  her  near 
her  in  preference  to  anybody  else,  though  she  had 
only  lately  come ;  allowed  her  to  do  almost  as  she 
liked,  and  to  have  a  holiday  whenever  she  asked  for 
it.  The  husband  of  this  kind  young  lady  was  a  rich 
wine  -  merchant  of  the  town,  but  Mrs.  Harnham  did 
not  care  much  about  him.  In  the  daytime  you  could 
see  the  house  from  where  they  were  talking.  She, 
the  speaker,  liked  Melchester  better  than  the  lonely 
country,  and  she  was  going  to  have  a  new  hat  for 
next  Sunday  that  was  to  cost  fifteen  and  ninepence. 

Then  she  inquired  of  her  acquaintance  where  he 
lived,  and  he  told  her  in  London,  that  ancient  and 
smoky  city,  where  everybody  lived  who  lived  at  all, 
and  died  because  they  could  not  live  there.  He  came 
into  Wessex  two  or  three  times  a  year  for  profes¬ 
sional  reasons  ;  he  had  arrived  from  Wintoncester 
yesterday,  and  was  going  on  into  the  next  county  in 
a  day  or  two.  For  one  thing  he  did  like  the  country 
better  than  the  town,  and  it  was  because  it  contained 
such  girls  as  she. 

Then  the  pleasure  -  machine  started  again,  and,  to 
the  light  -  hearted  girl,  the  figure  of  the  handsome 


ON  THE  WESTERN  CIRCUIT 


81 


young  man,  the  market  -  square  with  its  lights  and 
crowd,  the  houses  beyond,  and  the  world  at  large, 
began  moving  round  as  before,  countermoving  in  the 
revolving  mirrors  on  her  right  hand,  she  being  as  it 
were  the  fixed  point  in  an  undulating,  dazzling,  lurid 
universe,  in  which  loomed  forward  most  prominently 
of  all  the  form  of  her  late  interlocutor.  Each  time 
that  she  approached  the  half  of  her  orbit  that  lay 
nearest  him  they  gazed  at  each  other  with  smiles,  and 
with  that  unmistakable  expression  which  means  so 
little  at  the  moment,  yet  so  often  leads  up  to  passion, 
heartache,  union,  disunion,  devotion,  overpopulation, 
drudgery,  content,  resignation,  despair. 

When  the  horses  slowed  anew  he  stepped  to  her 
side  and  proposed  another  heat.  “  Hang  the  expense 
for  once,”  he  said.  “  I’ll  pay  !” 

She  laughed  till  the  tears  came. 

“  Why  do  you  laugh,  dear  ?”  said  he. 

“  Because — you  are  so  genteel  that  you  must  have 
plenty  of  money,  and  only  say  that  for  fun  !”  she 
returned. 

“  Ha-ha  !”  laughed  the  young  man  in  unison,  and 
gallantly  producing  his  money  she  was  enabled  to 
whirl  on  again. 

As  he  stood  smiling  there  in  the  motley  crowd,  with 
his  pipe  in  his  hand,  and  clad  in  the  rough  pea-jacket 
and  wide-awake  that  he  had  put  on  for  his  stroll,  who 
would  have  supposed  him  to  be  Charles  Bradford 
Rave,  Esquire,  stuff-gownsman,  educated  at  Winton- 
cester,  called  to  the  bar  at  Lincoln’s  Inn,  now  going 
the  Western  Circuit,  merely  detained  in  Melchester 
by  a  small  arbitration  after  his  brethren  had  moved  on 
to  the  next  county-town  ? 

6 


life’s  little  ironies 


88 


II 

The  square  was  overlooked  from  its  remoter  corner 
by  the  house  of  which  the  young  girl  had  spoken,  a 
dignified  residence  of  considerable  size,  having  several 
windows  on  each  floor.  Inside  one  of  these,  on  the 
first  floor,  the  apartment  being  a  large  drawing-room, 
sat  a  lady,  in  appearance  from  twenty-eight  to  thirty 
years  of  age.  The  blinds  were  still  undrawn,  and  the 
lady  was  absently  surveying  the  weird  scene  without, 
her  cheek  resting  on  her  hand.  The  room  was  unlit 
from  within,  but  enough  of  the  glare  from  the  market¬ 
place  entered  it  to  reveal  the  lady’s  face.  She  was 
what  is  called  an  interesting  creature  rather  than  a 
handsome  woman  ;  dark-eyed,  thoughtful,  and  with 
sensitive  lips. 

A  man  sauntered  into  the  room  from  behind  and 
came  forward. 

“  Oh,  Edith,  I  didn’t  see  you,”  he  said.  “  Why  are 
you  sitting  here  in  the  dark  ?” 

“  I  am  looking  at  the  fair,”  replied  the  lady,  in  a 
languid  voice. 

“  Oh  ?  Horrid  nuisance  every  year  !  I  wish  it 
could  be  put  a  stop  to.” 

“  I  like  it.” 

“  H’m.  There’s  no  accounting  for  taste.” 

For  a  moment  he  gazed  from  the  window  with  her, 
for  politeness’  sake,  and  then  went  out  again. 

In  a  few  minutes  she  rang. 

“  Hasn’t  Anna  come  in  ?”  asked  Mrs.  Harnham. 

“  No,  m’m.” 

“  She  ought  to  be  in  by  this  time.  I  meant  her  to 
go  for  ten  minutes  only.” 

“  Shall  I  go  and  look  for  her,  m’m  ?”  said  the  house¬ 
maid,  alertly. 


ON  THE  WESTERN  CIRCUIT 


83 


“  No.  It  is  not  necessary  :  she  is  a  good  girl  and 
will  come  soon.” 

However,  when  the  servant  had  gone  Mrs.  Harn- 
ham  arose,  went  up  to  her  room,  cloaked  and  bonneted 
herself,  and  proceeded  down-stairs,  where  she  found 
her  husband. 

“  I  want  to  see  the  fair,”  she  said,  “and  I  am  going 
to  look  for  Anna.  I  have  made  myself  responsible  for 
her,  and  must  see  she  comes  to  no  harm.  She  ought 
to  be  in-doors.  Will  you  come  with  me?” 

“Oh,  she’s  all  right.  I  saw  her  on  one  of  those 
whirligig  things,  talking  to  her  young  man  as  I  came 
in.  But  I’ll  go  if  you  wish,  though  I’d  rather  go  a 
hundred  miles  the  other  way.” 

“  Then  please  do  so.  I  shall  come  to  no  harm 
alone.” 

She  left  the  house  and  entered  the  crowd  which 
thronged  the  market-place,  where  she  soon  discovered 
Anna,  seated  on  the  revolving  horse.  As  soon  as  it 
stopped  Mrs.  Harnham  advanced  and  said,  severely, 
“Anna,  how  can  you  be  such  a  wild  girl?  You  were 
only  to  be  out  for  ten  minutes.” 

Anna  looked  blank,  and  the  young  man,  who  had 
dropped  into  the  background,  came  to  her  assistance. 

“  Please  don’t  blame  her,”  he  said,  politely.  “  It  is 
my  fault  that  she  has  stayed.  She  looked  so  graceful 
on  the  horse  that  I  induced  her  to  go  round  again.  I 
assure  you  that  she  has  been  quite  safe.” 

“  In  that  case  I’ll  leave  her  in  your  hands,”  said 
Mrs.  Harnham,  turning  to  retrace  her  steps. 

But  this  for  the  moment  it  was  not  so  easy  to  do. 
Something  had  attracted  the  crowd  to  a  spot  in  their 
rear,  and  the  wine  -  merchant’s  wife,  caught  by  its 
Sway,  found  herself  pressed  against  Anna’s  acquaint¬ 
ance  without  power  to  move  away.  Their  faces  were 
within  a  few  inches  of  each  other,  his  breath  fanned 


84 


LIFE’S  LITTLE  IRONIES 


her  cheek  as  well  as  Anna’s.  They  could  do  no  other 
than  smile  at  the  accident  ;  but  neither  spoke,  and 
each  waited  passively.  Mrs.  Harnham  then  felt  a 
man’s  hand  clasping  her  fingers,  and  from  the  look  of 
consciousness  on  the  young  fellow’s  face  she  knew  the 
hand  to  be  his  ;  she  also  knew  that  from  the  position 
of  the  girl  he  had  no  other  thought  than  that  the  im¬ 
prisoned  hand  was  Anna’s.  What  prompted  her  to 
refrain  from  undeceiving  him  she  could  hardly  tell. 
Not  content  with  holding  the  hand,  he  playfully 
slipped  two  of  his  fingers  inside  her  glove,  against  her 
palm.  Thus  matters  continued  till  the  pressure  les¬ 
sened  ;  but  several  minutes  passed  before  the  crowd 
thinned  sufficiently  to  allow  Mrs.  Harnham  to  with¬ 
draw. 

“  How  did  they  get  to  know  each  other,  I  wonder?” 
she  mused  as  she  retreated.  “  Anna  is  really  very 
forward — and  he  very  wicked  and  nice.” 

She  was  so  gently  stirred  with  the  stranger’s  man¬ 
ner  and  voice,  with  the  tenderness  of  his  idle  touch, 
that  instead  of  re-entering  the  house  she  turned  back 
again  and  observed  the  pair  from  a  screened  nook. 
Really,  she  argued  (being  little  less  impulsive  than 
Anna  herself),  it  was  very  excusable  in  Anna  to  en¬ 
courage  him,  however  she  might  have  contrived  to 
make  his  acquaintance  ;  he  was  so  gentlemanly,  so 
fascinating,  had  such  beautiful  eyes.  The  thought 
that  he  was  several  years  her  junior  produced  a  rea¬ 
sonless  sigh. 

At  length  the  couple  turned  from  the  roundabout 
towards  the  door  of  Mrs.  Harnham’s  house,  and  the 
young  man  could  be  heard  saying  that  he  would  ac¬ 
company  her  home.  Anna,  then,  had  found  a  lover, 
apparently  a  very  devoted  one.  Mrs.  Harnham  was 
quite  interested  in  him.  When  they  drew  near  the 
door  of  the  wine  -  merchant’s  house,  a  comparatively 


ON  THE  WESTERN  CIRCUIT 


85 


deserted  spot  by  this  time,  they  stood  invisible  for  a 
little  while  in  the  shadow  of  a  wall,  where  they  sepa¬ 
rated,  Anna  going  on  to  the  entrance,  and  her  acquaint¬ 
ance  returning  across  the  square. 

“Anna,”  said  Mrs.  Harnham,  coming  up.  “  I’ve 
been  looking  at  you  !  That  young  man  kissed  you  at 
parting,  I  am  almost  sure.” 

“Well,”  stammered  Anna,  “he  said  if  I  didn’t  mind, 
it  would  do  me  no  harm,  and — and — him  a  great  deal 
of  good  !” 

“Ah,  I  thought  so  !  And  he  was  a  stranger  till  to¬ 
night  ?” 

“  Yes,  ma’am.” 

“  Yet  I  warrant  you  told  him  your  name  and  every¬ 
thing  about  yourself  ?” 

“  He  asked  me.” 

“  But  he  didn’t  tell  you  his  ?” 

“  Yes,  ma’am,  he  did !”  cried  Anna,  victoriously.  “  It 
is  Charles  Bradford,  of  London.” 

“Well,  if  he’s  respectable,  of  course  I’ve  nothing  to 
say  against  your  knowing  him,”  remarked  her  mis¬ 
tress,  prepossessed,  in  spite  of  general  principles,  in 
the  young  man’s  favor.  “  But  I  must  reconsider  all 
that  if  he  attempts  to  renew  your  acquaintance.  A 
country-bred  girl  like  you,  who  has  never  lived  in 
Melchester  till  this  month,  who  had  hardly  ever  seen  a 
black-coated  man  till  you  came  here,  to  be  so  sharp  as 
to  capture  a  young  Londoner  like  him !” 

“I  didn’t  capture  him.  I  didn’t  do  anything,”  said 
Anna,  in  confusion. 

When  she  was  in-doors  and  alone  Mrs.  Harnham 
thought  what  a  well-bred  and  chivalrous  young  man 
Anna’s  companion  had  seemed.  There  had  been  a 
magic  in  his  wooing  touch  of  her  hand,  and  she  won¬ 
dered  how  he  had  come  to  be  attracted  by  the  girl. 

The  next  morning  the  emotional  Edith  Harnham 


86 


life’s  little  ironies 


went  to  the  usual  week-day  service  in  Melchester  ca¬ 
thedral.  In  crossing  the  close  through  the  fog  she 
again  perceived  him  who  had  interested  her  the  pre¬ 
vious  evening,  gazing  up  thoughtfully  at  the  high- 
piled  architecture  of  the  nave;  and  as  soon  as  she  had 
taken  her  seat  he  entered  and  sat  down  in  a  stall  op¬ 
posite  hers. 

He  did  not  particularly  heed  her;  but  Mrs  Harnham 
was  continually  occupying  her  eyes  with  him,  and  won¬ 
dered  more  than  ever  what  had  attracted  him  in  her  un¬ 
fledged  maid-servant.  The  mistress  was  almost  as  un¬ 
accustomed  as  the  maiden  herself  to  the  end-of-the-age 
young  man,  or  she  might  have  wondered  less.  Raye, 
having  looked  about  him  awhile,  left  abruptly,  with¬ 
out  regard  to  the  service  that  was  proceeding;  and 
Mrs.  Harnham  —  lonely,  impressionable  creature  that 
she  was — took  no  further  interest  in  praising  the  Lord. 
She  wished  she  had  married  a  London  man  who  knew 
the  subtleties  of  love-making  as  they  were  evidently 
known  to  him  who  had  mistakenly  caressed  her  hand. 


Ill 

The  calendar  at  Melchester  had  been  light,  occupy¬ 
ing  the  court  only  a  few  hours ;  and  the  assizes  at 
Casterbridge,  the  next  county -town  on  the  Western 
Circuit,  having  no  business  for  Raye,  he  had  not  gone 
thither.  At  the  next  town  after  that  they  did  not 
open  till  the  following  Monday,  trials  to  begin  on 
Tuesday  morning.  In  the  natural  order  of  things 
Raye  would  have  arrived  at  the  latter  place  on 
Monday  afternoon  ;  but  it  was  not  till  the  middle  of 
Wednesday  that  his  gown  and  gray  wig,  curled  in 
tiers,  in  the  best  fashion  of  Assyrian  bass-reliefs,  were 


ON  THE  WESTERN  CIRCUIT 


87 


seen  blowing  and  bobbing  behind  him  as  he  hastily 
walked  up  the  High  Street  from  his  lodgings.  But 
though  he  entered  the  assize  building,  there  was  noth- 
iug  for  him  to  do;  and  sitting  at  the  blue  baize  table 
in  the  well  of  the  court,  he  mended  pens  with  a  mind 
far  away  from  the  case  in  progress.  Thoughts  of 
unpremeditated  conduct,  of  which  a  week  earlier  he 
would  not  have  believed  himself  capable,  threw  him 
into  a  mood  of  dissatisfied  depression. 

He  had  contrived  to  see  again  the  pretty  rural  maid¬ 
en  Anna  the  day  after  the  fair,  had  walked  out  of  the 
city  with  her  to  the  earthworks  of  Old  Melchester, 
and,  feeling  a  violent  fancy  for  her,  had  remained  in 
Melchester  all  Sunday,  Monday,  and  Tuesday ;  by  per¬ 
suasion  obtaining  walks  and  meetings  with  the  young 
girl  six  or  seven  times  during  the  interval ;  had  in  brief 
won  her,  body  and  soul. 

He  supposed  it  must  have  been  owing  to  the  seclu¬ 
sion  in  which  he  had  lived  of  late  in  town  that  he  had 
given  way  so  unrestrainedly  to  a  passion  for  an  artless 
creature  whose  inexperience  had,  from  the  first,  led 
her  to  place  herself  unreservedly  in  his  hands.  Much 
he  deplored  trifling  with  her  feelings  for  the  sake  of  a 
passing  desire ;  and  he  could  only  hope  that  she  might 
not  live  to  suffer  on  his  account. 

She  had  begged  him  to  come  to  her  again ;  entreat¬ 
ed  him;  wept.  He  had  promised  that  he  would  do  so, 
and  he  meant  to  carry  out  that  promise.  He  could 
not  desert  her  now.  Awkward  as  such  unintentional 
connections  were,  the  interspace  of  a  hundred  miles — 
which  to  a  girl  of  her  limited  capabilities  was  like  a 
thousand — would  effectually  hinder  this  summer  fancy 
from  greatly  encumbering  his  life;  while  thought  of 
her  simple  love  might  do  him  the  negative  good  of 
keeping  him  from  idle  pleasures  in  town  when  he 
wished  to  work  hard.  His  circuit  journeys  would 


88 


life’s  little  ironies 


take  him  to  Melch ester  three  or  four  times  a  year, 

and  then  he  could  always  see  her. 

The  pseudonym,  or  rather  partial  name,  that  he  had 
given  her  as  his  before  knowing  how  far  the  acquaint¬ 
ance  was  going  to  carry  him,  had  been  spoken  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment,  without  any  ulterior  intention 
whatever.  He  had  not  afterwards  disturbed  Anna’s 
error,  but  on  leaving  her  he  had  felt  bound  to  give 
her  an  address  at  a  stationer’s  not  far  from  his  cham¬ 
bers,  at  which  she  might  write  to  him  under  the  ini¬ 
tials  “  C.  B.” 

In  due  time  Raye  returned  to  his  London  abode, 
having  called  at  Melchester  on  his  way  and  spent  a 
few  additional  hours  with  his  fascinating  child  of 
nature.  In  town  he  lived  monotonously  every  day. 
Often  he  and  his  rooms  were  enclosed  by  a  tawny  fog 
from  all  the  world  besides,  and  when  he  lighted  the 
gas  to  read  or  write  by,  his  situation  seemed  so  un¬ 
natural  that  he  would  look  into  the  fire  and  think 
of  that  trusting  girl  at  Melchester  again  and  again. 
Often,  oppressed  by  absurd  fondness  for  her,  he  would 
enter  the  dim  religious  nave  of  the  Law  Courts  by  the 
north  door,  elbow  other  juniors  habited  like  himself, 
and  like  him  unretained;  edge  himself  into  this  or  that 
crowded  court  where  a  sensational  case  was  going  on, 
just  as  if  he  were  in  it,  though  the  police  officers  at 
the  door  knew  as  well  as  he  knew  himself  that  he  had 
no  more  concern  with  the  business  in  hand  than  the  pa¬ 
tient  idlers  at  the  gallery  door  outside,  who  had  waited 
to  enter  since  eight  in  the  morning  because,  like  him, 
they  belonged  to  the  classes  that  live  without  work¬ 
ing.  But  he  would  do  these  things  to  no  purpose,  and 
think  how  greatly  the  characters  in  such  scenes  con¬ 
trasted  with  the  pink  and  breezy  Anna. 

An  unexpected  feature  in  that  peasant  maiden’s 
conduct  was  that  she  had  not  as  yet  written  to  him, 


ON  THE  WESTERN  CIRCUIT 


89 


though  he  had  told  her  she  might  do  so  if  she  wished. 
Surely  a  young  creature  had  never  before  been  so  ret¬ 
icent  in  such  circumstances.  At  length  he  sent  her  a 
brief  line,  positively  requesting  her  to  write.  There 
was  no  answer  by  the  return  post,  but  the  day  after  a 
letter  in  a  neat  feminine  hand,  and  bearing  the  Mel- 
chester  postmark,  was  handed  to  him  by  the  stationer. 

The  fact  alone  of  its  arrival  was  sufficient  to  satis¬ 
fy  his  imaginative  sentiment.  He  was  not  anxious 
to  open  the  epistle,  and  in  truth  did  not  begin  to 
read  it  for  nearly  half  an  hour,  anticipating  readily  its 
terras  of  affectionate  retrospect  and  tender  adjuration. 
When  at  last  he  turned  his  feet  to  the  fireplace  and 
unfolded  the  sheet,  he  was  surprised  and  pleased  to 
find  that  neither  extravagance  nor  vulgarity  were 
there.  It  was  the  most  charming  little  missive  he 
had  ever  received  from  woman.  To  be  sure  the  lan¬ 
guage  was  simple,  and  the  ideas  were  slight;  but  it 
was  so  self  -  possessed,  so  purely  that  of  a  young  girl 
who  felt  her  womanhood  to  be  enough  for  her  dignity 
that  he  read  it  through  twice.  Four  sides  were  filled, 
and  a  few  lines  written  across,  after  the  fashion  of 
former  days  ;  the  paper,  too,  was  common,  and  not  of 
the  latest  shade  and  surface.  But  what  of  those 
things?  He  had  received  letters  from  women  who 
were  fairly  called  ladies,  but  never  so  sensible,  so 
human  a  letter  as  this.  He  could  not  single  out  any 
one  sentence  and  say  it  was  at  all  remarkable  or 
clever  ;  the  ensemble  of  the  letter  it  was  which  won 
him  ;  and  beyond  the  one  request  that  he  would  write 
or  come  to  her  again  soon  there  was  nothing  to  show 
her  sense  of  a  claim  upon  him. 

To  write  again  and  develop  a  correspondence  was 
the  last  thing  Raye  would  have  preconceived  as  his 
conduct  in  such  a  situation ;  yet  he  did  send  a  short, 
encouraging  line  or  two,  signed  with  his  pseudonym. 


90 


life’s  little  ironies 


in  which  he  asked  for  another  letter,  and  cheeringly 
promised  that  he  would  try  to  see  her  again  on  some 
near  day,  and  would  never  forget  how  much  they  had 
been  to  each  other  during  their  short  acquaintance. 


IV 

To  return  now  to  the  moment  at  which  Anna,  at 
Melchester,  had  received  Raye’s  letter. 

It  had  been  put  into  her  own  hand  by  the  postman 
on  his  morning  rounds.  She  flushed  down  to  her  neck 
on  receipt  of  it,  and  turned  it  over  and  over.  “It  is 
mine  ?”  she  said. 

“  Why,  yes,  can’t  you  see  it  is  ?”  said  the  postman, 
smiling  as  he  guessed  the  nature  of  the  document  and 
the  cause  of  the  confusion. 

“  Oh  yes,  of  course !”  replied  Anna,  looking  at  the 
letter,  forcedly  tittering,  and  blushing  still  more. 

Her  look  of  embarrassment  did  not  leave  her  with 
the  postman’s  departure.  She  opened  the  envelope, 
kissed  its  contents,  put  away  the  letter  in  her  pocket, 
and  remained  musing  till  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

A  few  minutes  later  she  carried  up  a  cup  of  tea  to 
Mrs.  Harnham  in  her  bed-chamber.  Anna’s  mistress 
looked  at  her,  and  said  :  “  How  dismal  you  seem  this 
morning,  Anna.  What’s  the  matter  ?” 

“  I’m  not  dismal,  I’m  glad ;  only  I — ”  She  stopped 
to  stifle  a  sob. 

“  Well  ?” 

“  I’ve  got  a  letter — and  what  good  is  it  to  me  if  I 
can’t  read  a  word  in  it  ?” 

“  Why,  I’ll  read  it,  child,  if  necessary.” 

“  But  this  is  from  somebody — I  don’t  want  anybody 
to  read  it  but  myself!”  Anna  murmured. 


ON  THE  WESTERN  CIRCUIT 


91 


44 1  shall  not  tell  anybody.  Is  it  from  that  young 
man  ?” 

44 1  think  so.”  Anna  slowly  produced  the  letter, 
saying  :  44  Then  will  you  read  it  to  me,  ma’am  ?” 

This  was  the  secret  of  Anna’s  embarrassment  and 
fiutterings.  She  could  neither  read  nor  write.  She 
had  grown  up  under  the  care  of  an  aunt  by  marriage, 
at  one  of  the  lonely  hamlets  on  the  Great  Mid- Wessex 
Plain  where,  even  in  days  of  national  education, 
there  had  been  no  school  within  a  distance  of  two 
miles.  Her  aunt  was  an  ignorant  woman  ;  there  had 
been  nobody  to  investigate  Anna’s  circumstances, 
nobody  to  care  about  her  learning  the  rudiments, 
though,  as  often  in  such  cases,  she  had  been  well  fed 
and  clothed  and  not  unkindly  treated.  Since  she  had 
come  to  live  at  Melch ester  with  Mrs.  Harnham,  the 
latter,  who  took  a  kindly  interest  in  the  girl,  had 
taught  her  to  speak  correctly,  in  which  accomplish¬ 
ment  Anna  showed  considerable  readiness,  as  is  not 
unusual  with  the  illiterate  ;  and  soon  became  quite 
fluent  in  the  use  of  her  mistress’s  phraseology.  Mrs. 
Harnham  also  insisted  upon  her  getting  a  spelling 
and  copy  book,  and  beginning  to  practise  in  these. 
Anna  was  slower  in  this  branch  of  her  education,  and 
meanwhile  here  was  the  letter. 

Edith  Harnham’s  large  dark  eyes  expressed  some 
interest  in  the  contents,  though,  in  her  character  of 
mere  interpreter,  she  threw  into  her  tone  as  much  as 
she  could  of  mechanical  passiveness.  She  read  the 
short  epistle  on  to  its  concluding  sentence,  which  idly 
requested  Anna  to  send  him  a  tender  answer. 

44  Now  —  you’ll  do  it  for  me,  won’t  you,  dear  mis¬ 
tress  ?”  said  Anna,  eagerly.  44  And  you’ll  do  it  as  well 
as  ever  you  can,  please?  Because  I  couldn’t  bear  him 
to  think  I  am  not  able  to  do  it  myself.  I  should  sink 
into  the  earth  with  shame  if  he  knew  that !” 


92 


life’s  little  ironies 


From  some  words  in  the  letter  Mrs.  Harnham  was 
led  to  ask  questions,  and  the  answers  she  received 
confirmed  her  suspicions.  Deep  concern  filled  Edith’s 
heart  at  perceiving  how  the  girl  had  committed  her 
happiness  to  the  issue  of  this  new-sprung  attachment. 
She  blamed  herself  for  not  interfering  in  a  flirtation 
which  had  resulted  so  seriously  for  the  poor  little 
creature  in  her  charge ;  though  at  the  time  of  seeing 
the  pair  together  she  had  a  feeling  that  it  was  hardly 
within  her  province  to  nip  young  affection  in  the  bud. 
However,  what  was  done  could  not  be  undone,  and  it 
behooved  her  now,  as  Anna’s  only  protector,  to  help 
her  as  much  as  she  could.  To  Anna’s  eager  request 
that  she,  Mrs.  Harnham,  should  compose  and  write  the 
answer  to  this  young  London  man’s  letter,  she  felt 
bound  to  accede,  to  keep  alive  his  attachment  to  the 
girl  if  possible;  though  in  other  circumstances  she 
might  have  suggested  the  cook  as  an  amanuensis. 

A  tender  reply  was  thereupon  concocted,  and  set 
down  in  Edith  Harnham’s  hand.  This  letter  it  had 
been  which  Raye  had  received  and  delighted  in. 
Written  in  the  presence  of  Anna  it  certainly  was,  and 
on  Anna’s  humble  note-paper,  and  in  a  measure  indited 
by  the  young  girl;  but  the  life,  the  spirit,  the  individ¬ 
uality,  were  Edith  Harnham’s. 

“  Won’t  you  at  least  put  your  name  yourself  ?”  she 
said.  “  You  can  manage  to  write  that  by  this  time  ?” 

“  No,  no,”  said  Anna,  shrinking  back.  “  I  should  do 
it  so  bad.  He’d  be  ashamed  of  me,  and  never  see  me 
again  !” 

The  note,  so  prettily  requesting  another  from  him, 
had,  as  we  have  seen,  power  enough  in  its  pages  to 
bring  one.  He  declared  it  to  be  such  a  pleasure  to 
hear  from  her  that  she  must  write  every  week.  The 
same  process  of  manufacture  was  accordingly  repeated 
by  Anna  and  her  mistress,  and  continued  for  several 


ON  THE  WESTERN  CIRCUIT 


93 


weeks  in  succession,  eacli  letter  being  penned  and 
suggested  by  Edith,  the  girl  standing  by;  the  answer 
read  and  commented  on  by  Edith,  Anna  standing  by 
and  listening  again. 

Late  on  a  winter  evening,  after  the  despatch  of  the 
sixth  letter,  Mrs.  Harnham  was  sitting  alone  by  the 
remains  of  her  fire.  Her  husband  had  retired  to  bed, 
and  she  had  fallen  into  that  fixity  of  musing  which  takes 
no  count  of  hour  or  temperature.  The  state  of  mind 
had  been  brought  about  in  Edith  by  a  strange  thing 
which  she  had  done  that  day.  For  the  first  time  since 
Raye’s  visit  Anna  had  gone  to  stay  over  a  night  or 
two  with  her  cottage  friends  on  the  Plain,  and  in  her 
absence  had  arrived,  out  of  its  time,  a  letter  from  Raye. 
To  this  Edith  had  replied  on  her  own  responsibility, 
from  the  depths  of  her  own  heart,  without  waiting  for 
her  maid’s  collaboration.  The  luxury  of  writing  to 
him  what  would  be  known  to  no  consciousness  but  his 
was  great,  and  she  had  indulged  herself  therein. 

Why  was  it  a  luxury  ? 

Edith  Harnham  led  a  lonely  life.  Influenced  by  the 
belief  of  the  British  parent  that  a  bad  marriage  with 
its  aversions  is  better  than  free  womanhood  with  its 
interests,  dignity,  and  leisure,  she  had  consented  to 
marry  the  elderly  wine-merchant  as  a  pis  alter ,  at  the 
age  of  seven-and-twenty — some  three  years  before  this 
date — to  find  afterwards  that  she  had  made  a  mistake. 
That  contract  had  left  her  still  a  woman  whose  deeper 
nature  had  never  been  stirred. 

She  was  now  clearly  realizing  that  she  had  become 
possessed  to  the  bottom  of  her  soul  with  the  image  of 
a  man  to  whom  she  was  hardly  so  much  as  a  shape. 
From  the  first  he  had  attracted  her  by  his  looks  and 
voice,  by  his  tender  touch;  and,  with  these  as  genera¬ 
tors,  the  writing  of  letter  after  letter  and  the  reading 
of  their  soft  answers  had  insensibly  developed  on  her 


94 


life’s  little  ieonies 


side  an  emotion  which  fanned  his;  till  there  had  re¬ 
sulted  a  magnetic  reciprocity  between  the  correspond¬ 
ents,  notwithstanding  that  one  of  them  wrote  in  a 
character  not  her  own. 

They  were  her  own  impassioned  and  pent-up  ideas — 
lowered  to  monosyllabic  phraseology  in  order  to  keep 
up  the  disguise — that  Edith  put  into  letters  signed 
with  another  name,  much  to  the  shallow  Anna’s  de¬ 
light,  who,  unassisted,  could  not  for  the  world  have 
conceived  such  pretty  fancies  for  winning  him,  even 
had  she  been  able  to  write  them.  Edith  found  that  it 
was  these,  her  own  foisted-in  sentiments,  to  which  the 
young  barrister  mainly  responded.  The  few  sentences 
occasionally  added  from  Anna’s  own  lips  made  appar¬ 
ently  no  impression  upon  him. 

The  letter-writing  in  her  absence  Anna  never  dis¬ 
covered;  hut  on  her  return  the  next  morning  she  de¬ 
clared  she  wished  to  see  her  lover  about  something  at 
once,  and  begged  Mrs.  Ilarnham  to  ask  him  to  come. 

There  was  a  strange  anxiety  in  her  manner  which 
did  not  escape  Mrs.  Ilarnham,  and  ultimately  resolved 
itself  into  a  flood  of  tears.  Sinking  down  at  Edith’s 
knees,  she  made  confession  that  the  result  of  her  rela¬ 
tions  with  her  lover  it  would  soon  become  necessary  to 
disclose. 

Edith  Ilarnham  was  generous  enough  to  be  very  far 
from  inclined  to  cast  Anna  adrift  at  this  conjuncture. 
No  true  woman  is  ever  so  inclined  from  her  own  per¬ 
sonal  point  of  view,  however  prompt  she  may  be  in 
taking  such  steps  to  safeguard  those  dear  to  her.  Al¬ 
though  she  had  written  to  Rave  so  short  a  time  pre¬ 
viously,  she  instantly  penned  another  Anna-note  hint¬ 
ing  clearly  though  delicately  the  state  of  affairs. 

Raye  replied  by  a  hasty  line  to  say  how  much  he  was 
affected  by  her  news:  he  felt  that  he  must  run  down 
to  see  her  almost  immediately. 


i 


ON  THE  WESTERN  CIRCUIT 


95 


But  a  week  later  the  girl  came  to  her  mistress’s 
room  with  another  note,  which  on  being  read  informed 
her  that,  after  all,  he  could  not  find  time  for  the 
journey.  Anna  was  broken  with  grief ;  but  by  Mrs. 
Harnham’s  counsel  strictly  refrained  from  hurling  at 
him  the  reproaches  and  bitterness  customary  from 
young  women  so  situated.  One  thing  was  imperative: 
to  keep  the  young  man’s  romantic  interest  in  her  alive. 
Rather  therefore  did  Edith,  in  the  name  of  her  pro¬ 
tegee,  request  him  on  no  account  to  be  distressed  about 
the  looming  event,  and  not  to  inconvenience  himself 
to  hasten  down.  She  desired  above  everything  to  be 
no  weight  upon  him  in  his  career,  no  clog  upon  his 
high  activities.  She  had  wished  him  to  know  what 
had  befallen;  he  was  to  dismiss  it  again  from  his  mind. 
Only  he  must  write  tenderly  as  ever,  and  when  he 
should  come  again  on  the  spring  circuit  it  would  be 
time  enough  to  discuss  what  had  better  be  done. 

It  may  well  be  supposed  that  Anna’s  own  feelings 
had  not  been  quite  in  accord  with  these  generous  ex¬ 
pressions;  but  the  mistress’s  judgment  had  ruled,  and 
Anna  had  acquiesced.  “  All  I  want  is  that  niceness 
you  can  so  well  put  into  your  letters,  my  dear,  dear 
mistress,  and  that  I  can’t  for  the  life  o’  me  make  up 
out  of  my  own  head;  though  I  mean  the  same  thing 
and  feel  it  exactly  when  you’ve  written  it  down  !” 

When  the  letter  had  been  sent  off,  and  Edith  Harn- 
ham  was  left  alone,  she  bowed  herself  on  the  back 
of  her  chair  and  wept. 

“  I  wish  it  was  mine — I  wish  it  was  !”  she  murmured. 
“  Yet  how  can  I  say  such  a  wicked  thing !” 


96 


life’s  little  ironies 


V 

The  letter  moved  Raye  considerably  when  it  reached 
him.  The  intelligence  itself  had  alfected  him  less  than 
her  unexpected  manner  of  treating  him  in  relation  to 
it.  The  absence  of  any  word  of  reproach,  the  devotion 
to  his  interests,  the  self  -  sacrifice  apparent  in  every 
line,  all  made  up  a  nobility  of  character  that  he  had 
never  dreamed  of  finding  in  womankind. 

“  God  forgive  me  !”  he  said,  tremulously.  “  I  have 
been  a  wicked  wretch.  .  I  did  not  know  she  was  such 
a  treasure  as  this  !” 

He  reassured  her  instantly;  declaring  that  he  would 
not  of  course  desert  her,  that  he  would  provide  a 
home  for  her  somewhere.  Meanwhile  she  was  to  stay 
where  she  was  as  long  as  her  mistress  would  allow 
her. 

But  a  misfortune  supervened  in  this  direction. 
Whether  an  inkling  of  Anna’s  circumstances  reached 
the  knowledge  of  Mrs.  Harnham’s  husband  or  not  can¬ 
not  be  said,  but  the  girl  was  compelled,  in  spite  of 
Edith’s  entreaties,  to  leave  the  house.  By  her  own 
choice  she  decided  to  go  back  for  a  while  to  the  cot¬ 
tage  on  the  Plain.  This  arrangement  led  to  a  consul¬ 
tation  as  to  how  the  correspondence  should  be  carried 
on;  and  in  the  girl’s  inability  to  continue  personally 
what  had  been  begun  in  her  name,  and  in  the  difficulty 
of  their  acting  in  concert  as  heretofore,  she  requested 
Mrs.  Harnham — the  only  well-to-do  friend  she  had  in 
the  world — to  receive  the  letters  and  reply  to  them 
off-hand,  sending  them  on  afterwards  to  herself  on  the 
Plain,  where  she  might  at  least  get  some  neighbor  to 
read  them  to  her,  though  disqualified  from  replying 
for  her  because  of  the  hand.  Anna  and  her  box  then 
departed  for  the  Plain. 


ON  THE  WESTERN  CIRCUIT 


97 


Thus  it  befell  that  Edith  Harnhara  found  herself  in 
the  strange  position  of  having  to  correspond,  under  no 
supervision  by  the  real  woman,  with  a  man  not  her 
husband,  in  terms  which  were  virtually  those  of  a 
wife,  concerning  a  condition  that  was  not  Edith’s  at 
all ;  the  man  being  one  for  whom,  mainly  through  the 
sympathies  involved  in  playing  this  part,  she  secretly 
cherished  a  predilection,  subtle  and  imaginative  truly, 
but  strong  and  absorbing.  She  opened  each  letter, 
read  it  as  if  intended  for  herself,  and  replied  from  the 
promptings  of  her  own  heart  and  no  other. 

Throughout  this  correspondence,  carried  on  in  the 
girl’s  absence,  the  high-strung  Edith  Harnham  lived 
in  the  ecstasy  of  fancy ;  the  vicarious  intimacy  engen¬ 
dered  such  a  flow  of  passionateness  as  was  never  ex¬ 
ceeded.  For  conscience’  sake  Edith  at  first  sent  on 
each  of  his  letters  to  Anna,  and  even  rough  copies  of 
her  replies  ;  but  later  on  these  so-called  copies  were 
much  abridged,  and  many  letters  on  both  sides  were 
not  sent  on  at  all. 

Though  selfish,  and,  superficially  at  least,  infested 
with  the  self-indulgent  vices  of  artificial  society,  there 
was  a  substratum  of  honesty  and  fairness  in  Raye’s 
character.  He  had  really  a  tender  regard  for  the  coun¬ 
try  girl,  and  it  grew  more  tender  than  ever  when  he 
found  her  apparently  capable  of  expressing  the  deep¬ 
est  sensibilities  in  the  simplest  words.  He  meditated, 
he  wavered ;  and  finally  resolved  to  consult  his  sister, 
a  maiden  lady  much  older  than  himself,  of  lively  sym¬ 
pathies  and  good  intent.  In  making  this  confidence 
he  showed  her  some  of  the  letters. 

“  She  seems  fairly  educated,”  Miss  Raye  observed, 
“and  bright  in  ideas.  She  expresses  herself  with  a 
taste  that  must  be  innate.” 

“  Yes.  She  writes  very  prettily,  doesn’t  she,  thanks 
to  these  elementary  schools.” 

7 


98 


life’s  LITTLE  1B0NIES 


<£  One  is  drawn  out  towards  her,  in  spite  of  one’s 
self,  poor  thing!” 

The  upshot  of  the  discussion  was  that  though  he 
had  not  been  directly  advised  to  do  it,  Raye  wrote,  in 
his  real  name,  what  he  would  never  have  decided  to 
write  on  his  own  responsibility — namely,  that  he  could 
not  live  without  her,  and  would  come  down  in  the 
spring  and  shelve  her  looming  difficulty  by  marrying 
her. 

This  bold  acceptance  of  the  situation  was  made 
known  to  Anna  by  Mrs.  Harnham  driving  out  imme¬ 
diately  to  the  cottage  on  the  Plain.  Anna  jumped 
for  joy  like  a  little  child  ;  and  poor,  crude  directions 
for  answering  appropriately  were  given  to  Edith  Harn¬ 
ham,  who  on  her  return  to  the  city  carried  them  out 
with  warm  intensifications. 

“  Oh  !”  she  groaned,  as  she  threw  down  the  pen. 
“Anna  —  poor  good  little  fool  —  hasn’t  intelligence 
enough  to  appreciate  him.  How  should  she  ?  While 
I — don’t  bear  his  child  !” 

It  was  now  February.  The  correspondence  had 
continued  altogether  for  four  months,  and  the  next 
letter  from  Raye  contained  incidentally  a  statement 
of  his  position  and  prospects.  He  said  that  in  offer¬ 
ing  to  wed  her  he  had  at  first  contemplated  the 
step  of  retiring  from  a  profession  which  hitherto  had 
brought  him  very  slight  emolument,  and  which,  to 
speak  plainly,  he  had  thought  might  be  difficult  of 
practice  after  his  union  with  her.  But  the  unexpect¬ 
ed  mines  of  brightness  and  warmth  that  her  letters 
had  disclosed  to  be  lurking  in  her  sweet  nature  had 
led  him  to  abandon  that  somewhat  sad  prospect.  He 
felt  sure  that  with  her  powers  of  development,  after 
a  little  private  training  in  the  social  forms  of  London 
under  his  supervision,  and  a  little  help  from  a  govern¬ 
ess  if  necessary,  she  would  make  as  good  a  profes- 


ON  THE  WESTERN  CIRCUIT 


99 

sional  man’s  wife  as  could  be  desired,  even  if  he  should 
rise  to  the  woolsack.  Many  a  lord-chancellor’s  wife 
had  been  less  intuitively  a  lady  than  she  had  shown 
herself  to  be  in  her  lines  to  him. 

“  Oh,  poor  fellow,  poor  fellow  !”  mourned  Edith 
Ha  rnh  am. 

Her  distress  now  raged  as  high  as  her  infatuation. 
It  was  she  who  had  wrought  him  to  this  pitch — to  a 
marriage  which  meant  his  ruin;  yet  she  could  not,  in 
mercy  to  her  maid,  do  anything  to  hinder  his  plan. 
Anna  was  coming  to  Melchester  that  week,  but  she 
could  hardly  show  the  girl  this  last  reply  from  the 
young  man;  it  told  too  much  of  the  second  individu¬ 
ality  that  had  usurped  the  place  of  the  first. 

Anna  came,  and  her  mistress  took  her  into  her  own 
room  for  privacy.  Anna  began  by  saying  with  some 
anxiety  that  she  was  very  glad  the  wedding  was  so 
near. 

“Oh,  Anna!”  replied  Mrs.  Harnham.  “ I  think  we 
must  tell  him  all— that  I  have  been  doing  your  writing 
for  you — lest  he  should  not  know  it  till  after  you  be¬ 
come  his  wife,  and  it  might  lead  to  dissension  and 
recriminations — ” 

“  Oh,  mis’ess,  dear  mis’ess  —  please  don’t  tell  him 
now!”  cried  Anna,  in  distress.  “  If  you  were  to  do  it, 
perhaps  he  would  not  marry  me,  and  what  should  I 
do  then?  It  would  be  terrible  what  would  come  to 
me!  And  I  am  getting  on  with  my  writing,  too.  I 
have  brought  with  me  the  copybook  you  were  so  good 
as  to  give  me,  and  I  practise  every  day,  and  though 
it  is  so,  so  hard,  I  shall  do  it  well  at  last,  I  believe,  if 
I  keep  on  trying.” 

Edith  looked  at  the  copybook.  The  copies  had 
been  set  by  herself,  and  such  progress  as  the  girl  had 
made  was  in  the  way  of  grotesque  fac-simile  of  her 
mistress’s  hand.  But  even  if  Edith’s  flowing  calig- 


100 


life’s  little  ironies 


raphy  were  reproduced  the  inspiration  would  be  an¬ 
other  thing. 

“You  do  it  so  beautifully,”  continued  Anna,  “and 
say  all  that  I  want  to  say  so  much  better  than  I  could 
say  it,  that  I  do  hope  you  won’t  leave  me  in  the  lurch 
just  now!” 

“Very  well,”  replied  the  other.  “But  I  —  but  I 
thought  I  ought  not  to  go  on.” 

“  Why  ?” 

Her  strong  desire  to  confide  her  sentiments  led  Edith 
to  answer  truly: 

“  Because  of  its  effect  upon  me.” 

“But  it  can't  have  any!” 

“  Why,  child  ?” 

“  Because  you  are  married  already  !”  said  Anna, 
with  lucid  simplicity* 

“Of  course  it  can’t,”  said  her  mistress, hastily  ;  yet 
glad,  despite  her  conscience,  that  two  or  three  out¬ 
pourings  still  remained  to  her.  “  But  you  must  con¬ 
centrate  your  attention  on  writing  your  name  as  I 
write  it  here.” 


VI 

Soon  Raye  wrote  about  the  wedding.  Having  de¬ 
cided  to  make  the  best  of  what  he  feared  was  a  piece 
of  romantic  folly,  he  had  acquired  more  zest  for  the 
grand  experiment.  He  wished  the  ceremony  to  be  in 
London,  for  greater  privacy.  Edith  Harnham  would 
have  preferred  it  at  Melchester  ;  Anna  was  passive. 
His  reasoning  prevailed,  and  Mrs.  Harnham  threw 
herself  with  mournful  zeal  into  the  preparations  for 
Anna’s  departure.  In  a  last  desperate  feeling  that  she 
must  at  every  hazard  be  in  at  the  death  of  her  dream, 


ON  THE  WESTERN  CIRCUIT 


101 


and  see  once  again  the  man  who  by  a  species  of  tel¬ 
epathy  had  exercised  such  an  influence  on  her,  she  of¬ 
fered  to  go  up  with  Anna  and  be  with  her  through  the 
ceremony — “  to  see  the  end  of  her,”  as  her  mistress 
put  it  with  forced  gayety  ;  an  offer  which  the  girl 
gratefully  accepted  ;  for  she  had  no  other  friend  ca¬ 
pable  of  playing  the  part  of  companion  and  witness,  in 
the  presence  of  a  gentlemanly  bridegroom,  in  such  a 
way  as  not  to  hasten  an  opinion  that  he  had  made  an 
irremediable  social  blunder. 

It  was  a  muddy  morning  in  March  when  Raye 
alighted  from  a  four-wheel  cab  at  the  door  of  a 
registry  -  office  in  the  S.  W.  district  of  London,  and 
carefully  handed  down  Anna  and  her  companion  Mrs. 
Harnham.  Anna  looked  attractive  in  the  somewhat 
fashionable  clothes  which  Mrs.  Harnham  had  helped 
her  to  buy,  though  not  quite  so  attractive  as,  an  inno¬ 
cent  child,  she  had  appeared  in  her  country  gown  on 
the  back  of  the  wooden  horse  at  Melchester  Fair. 

Mrs.  Harnham  had  come  up  this  morning  by  an 
early  train,  and  a  young  man  —  a  friend  of  Raye’s— - 
having  met  them  at  the  door,  all  four  entered  the 
registry-office  together.  Till  an  hour  before  this  time 
Raye  had  never  known  the  wine-merchant’s  wife,  ex¬ 
cept  at  that  first  casual  encounter,  and  in  the  flutter 
of  the  performance  before  them  he  had  little  oppor¬ 
tunity  for  more  than  a  brief  acquaintance.  The  con¬ 
tract  of  marriage  at  a  registry  is  soon  got  through; 
but  somehow,  during  its  progress,  Raye  discovered  a 
strange  and  secret  gravitation  between  himself  and 
Anna’s  friend. 

The  formalities  of  the  wedding — or  rather  ratifica¬ 
tion  of  a  previous  union — being  concluded,  the  four 
went  in  one  cab-to  Raye’s  lodgings,  newly  taken  in  a 
new  suburb  in  preference  to  a  house,  the  rent  of  which 
he  could  ill  afford  just  then.  Here  Anna  cut  the  little 


102 


life’s  little  ironies 


cake  which  Raye  had  bought  at  a  pastry-cook’s  on  his 
way  home  from  Lincoln’s  Inn  the  night  before.  But 
she  did  not  do  much  besides.  Raye’s  friend  was 
obliged  to  depart  almost  immediately,  and  when  he 
had  left  the  only  ones  virtually  present  were  Edith 
and  Raye,  who  exchanged  ideas  with  much  animation. 
The  conversation  was  indeed  theirs  only,  Anna  being 
as  a  domestic  animal  who  humbly  heard  but  under¬ 
stood  not.  Raye  seemed  startled  in  awakening  to  this 
fact,  and  began  to  feel  dissatisfied  with  her  inade¬ 
quacy. 

At  last,  more  disappointed  than  he  cared  to  own,  he 
said,  “Mrs.  Ilarnham,  my  darling  is  so  flurried  that 
she  doesn’t  know  what  she  is  doing  or  saying.  I  see 
that  after  this  event  a  little  quietude  will  be  neces¬ 
sary  before  she  gives  tongue  to  that  tender  philosophy 
which  she  used  to  treat  me  to  in  her  letters.” 

They  had  planned  to  start  early  that  afternoon  for 
Knollsea,  to  spend  the  few  opening  days  of  their  mar¬ 
ried  life  there,  and  as  the  hour  for  departure  was 
drawing  near  Raye  asked  his  wife  if  she  would  go  to 
the  writing-desk  in  the  next  room  and  scribble  a  little 
note  to  his  sister,  wTho  had  been  unable  to  attend 
through  indisposition,  informing  her  that  the  cere¬ 
mony  was  over,  thanking  her  for  her  little  present,  and 
hoping  to  know  her  well  now  that  she  was  the  writer’s 
sister  as  well  as  Charles’s. 

“  Say  it  in  the  pretty  poetical  way  you  know  so  well 
how  to  adopt,”  he  added,  “  for  I  want  you  particularly 
to  win  her,  and  both  of  you  to  be  dear  friends.” 

Anna  looked  uneasy,  but  departed  to  her  task,  Raye 
remaining  to  talk  to  their  guest.  Anna  was  a  long 
while  absent,  and  her  husband  suddenly  rose  and  went 
to  her. 

He  found  her  still  bending  over  the  writing-table, 
with  tears  brimming  up  in  her  eyes  ;  and  he  looked 


OH  THE  WESTERN  CIRCUIT 


down  upon  the  sheet  of  note-paper  with  some  interest, 
to  discover  with  what  tact  she  had  expressed  her  good¬ 
will  in  the  delicate  circumstances.  To  his  surprise 
she  had  progressed  but  a  few  lines,  in  the  characters 
and  spelling  of  a  child  of  eight,  and  with  the  ideas  of 
a  goose. 

“  Anna,”  he  said,  staring  ;  “  what’s  this  ?” 

“  It  only  means — that  I  can’t  do  it  any  better  !”  she 
answered,  through  her  tears. 

“Eh?  Nonsense!” 

“  I  can’t !”  she  insisted,  with  miserable,  sobbing 
hardihood.  “  I — I — didn’t  write  those  letters,  Charles  ; 
I  only  told  her  what  to  write,  and  not  always  that ! 
But  I  am  learning,  oh,  so  fast,  my  dear,  dear  husband  ! 
And  you’ll  forgive  me,  won’t  you,  for  not  telling  you 
before  ?”  She  slid  to  her  knees,  abjectly  clasped  his 
waist,  and  laid  her  face  against  him. 

He  stood  a  few  moments,  raised  her,  abruptly 
turned,  and  shut  the  door  upon  her,  rejoining  Edith 
in  the  drawing-room.  She  saw  that  something  untow¬ 
ard  had  been  discovered,  and  their  eyes  remained 
fixed  on  each  other. 

“  Do  I  guess  rightly?”  he  asked,  with  wan  quietude. 
“  You  were  her  scribe  through  all  this  ?” 

“  It  was  necessary,”  said  Edith. 

“  Did  she  dictate  every  word  you  ever  wrote  to  me  ?” 

“  Not  every  word.” 

“  In  fact,  very  little  ?” 

“  Very  little.” 

“  You  wrote  a  great  part  of  those  pages  every  week 
from  your  own  conceptions,  though  in  her  name?” 

“  Yes.” 

“  Perhaps  you  wrote  many  of  the  letters  when  you 
were  alone,  without  communication  with  her  ?” 

“  I  did.” 

He  turned  to  the  bookcase,  and  leaned  with  his 


"04 


life’s  little  ironies 


hand  over  his  face  ;  and  Edith,  seeing  his  distress,  be¬ 
came  white  as  a  sheet. 

“You  have  deceived  me  —  ruined  me!”  he  mur¬ 
mured. 

“  Oh,  don’t  say  it !”  she  cried  in  her  anguish,  jump¬ 
ing  up  and  putting  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  “  I  can’t 
bear  that  !” 

“  Delighting  me  deceptively.  Why  did  you  do  it 
— why  did  you  ?” 

“I  began  doing  it  in  kindness  to  her.  How  could  I 
do  otherwise  than  try  to  save  such  a  simple  girl  from 
misery?  But  I  admit  that  I  continued  it  for  pleasure 
to  myself.” 

Raye  looked  up.  “  Why  did  it  give  you  pleasure  ?” 
he  asked. 

“  I  must  not  tell,”  said  she. 

He  continued  to  regard  her,  and  saw  that  her  lips 
suddenly  began  to  quiver  under  his  scrutiny,  and  her 
eyes  to  fill  and  droop.  She  started  aside,  and  said  that 
she  must  go  to  the  station  to  catch  the  return  train  ; 
could  a  cab  be  called  immediately  ? 

But  Raye  went  up  to  her,  and  took  her  unresisting 
hand.  “Well,  to  think  of  such  a  thing  as  this  !”  he 
said.  “  Why,  you  and  I  are  friends— -lovers — devoted 
lovers — by  correspondence  !”' 

“Yes;  I  suppose.” 

“  More.” 

“  More  ?” 

“  Plainly  more.  It  is  no  use  blinking  that.  Legally 
I  have  married  her — God  help  us  both  ! — in  soul  and 
spirit  I  have  married  you,  and  no  other  woman  in  the 
world  !” 

“  Hush !” 

“  But  I  will  not  hush !  Why  should  you  try  to  dis¬ 
guise  the  full  truth, when  you  have  already  owned  half 
of  it?  Yes,  it  is  between  you  and  me  that  the  bond 


ON  THE  WESTERN  CIRCUIT 


105 


is — not  between  me  and  her  !  Now  I’ll  say  no  more. 
But,  oh,  my  cruel  one,  I  think  I  have  one  claim  upon 
you !” 

She  did  not  say  what,  and  he  drew  her  towards  him, 
and  bent  over  her.  “  If  it  was  all  pure  invention  in 
those  letters,”  he  said,  emphatically,  “give  me  your 
cheek  only.  If  you  meant  what  you  said,  let  it  be 
lips.  It  is  for  the  first  and  last  time,  remember !” 

She  put  up  her  mouth, and  he  kissed  her  long.  “You 
forgive  me  ?”  she  said,  crying. 

“Yes.” 

“  But  you  are  ruined !” 

“  What  matter  !”  he  said,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 
“  It  serves  me  right !” 

She  withdrew,  wiped  her  eyes,  entered  and  bade 
good-bye  to  Anna,  who  had  not  expected  her  to  go  so 
soon,  and  was  still  wrestling  with  the  letter.  Raye 
followed  Edith  down-stairs,  and  in  three  minutes  she 
was  in  a  hansom  driving  to  the  Waterloo  station. 

He  went  back  to  his  wife.  “Never  mind  the  letter, 
Anna,  to-day,”  he  said,  gently.  “  Put  on  your  things; 
we,  too,  must  be  off  shortly.” 

The  simple  girl,  upheld  by  the  sense  that  she  was 
indeed  married,  showed  her  delight  at  finding  that  he 
was  as  kind  as  ever  after  the  disclosure.  She  did  not 
know  that  before  his  eyes  he  beheld  as  it  were  a  gal¬ 
ley,  in  which  he,  the  fastidious  urban,  was  chained  to 
work  for  the  remainder  of  his  life,  with  her,  the  unlet¬ 
tered  peasant  chained  to  his  side. 

Edith  travelled  back  to  Melchester  that  day  with  a 
face  that  showed  the  very  stupor  of  grief.  The  end 
of  her  impassioned  dream  had  come.  When  at  dusk 
she  reached  the  Melchester  station  her  husband  was 
there  to  meet  her,  but  in  his  perfunctoriness  and  her 
preoccupation  they  did  not  see  each  other,  and  she 
went  out  of  the  station  alone. 


106  life’s  little  ieonies 

She  walked  mechanically  homeward  without  call¬ 
ing  a  fly.  Entering,  she  could  not  bear  the  silence  of 
the  house,  and  went  up  in  the  dark  to  where  Anna  had 
slept,  where  she  remained  thinking  awhile.  She  then 
returned  to  the  drawing-room,  and  not  knowing  what 
she  did,  crouched  down  upon  the  floor. 

“I  have  ruined  him!”  she  kept  repeating — “ I  have 
ruined  him ;  because  I  would  not  deal  treacherously 
towards  her!” 

In  the  course  of  half  an  hour  a  figure  opened  the 
door  of  the  apartment. 

“  Ah — who’s  that  ?”  she  said,  starting  up,  for  it  was 
dark. 

“Your  husband.  Who  should  it  be?”  said  the  wor¬ 
thy  merchant. 

“  Ah — my  husband  ! — I  forgot  I  had  a  husband  !” 
she  whispered  to  herself. 

“I  missed  you  at  the  station,” he  continued.  “Did 
you  see  Anna  safely  tied  up  ?  I  hope  so,  for  ’twas 
time.” 

“Yes — Anna  is  married.” 

Simultaneously  with  Edith’s  journey  home,  Anna 
and  her  husband  were  sitting  at  the  opposite  windows 
of  a  second-class  carriage  which  sped  along  to  Knoll- 
sea.  In  his  hand  was  a  pocket-book  full  of  creased 
sheets  closely  written  over.  Unfolding  them  one  after 
another  he  read  them  in  silence  and  sighed. 

“  What  are  you  doing,  dear  Charles  ?”  she  said,  tim¬ 
idly,  from  the  other  window,  and  drew  nearer  to  him 
as  if  he  were  a  god. 

“Reading  over  all  those  sweet  letters  to  me  signed 
‘  Anna,’  ”  he  replied,  with  dreary  resignation. 

Autumn,  1891. 


TO  PLEASE  HIS  WIFE 
I 

'The  interior  of  St.  James’s  Church,  in  Havenpool 
Town,  was  slowly  darkening  under  the  close  clouds  of 
a  winter  afternoon.  It  was  Sunday — service  had  just 
ended,  the  face  of  the  parson  in  the  pulpit  was  buried 
in  his  hands,  and  the  congregation,  with  a  cheerful 
sigh  of  release,  were  rising  from  their  knees  to  de¬ 
part. 

For  the  moment  the  stillness  was  so  complete  that 
the  surging  of  the  sea  could  be  heard  outside  the 
harbor-bar.  Then  it  was  broken  by  the  footsteps  of 
the  clerk  going  towards  the  west  door  to  open  it  in 
the  usual  manner  for  the  exit  of  the  assembly.  Before, 
however,  he  had  reached  the  doorway,  the  latch  was 
lifted  from  without,  and  the  dark  figure  of  a  man  in  a 
sailor’s  garb  appeared  against  the  light. 

The  clerk  stepped  aside,  the  sailor  closed  the  door 
gently  behind  him,  and  advanced  up  the  nave  till  he 
stood  at  the  chancel-step.  The  parson  looked  up  from 
the  private  little  prayer  which,  after  so  many  for  the 
parish,  he  quite  fairly  took  for  himself,  rose  to  his 
feet,  and  stared  at  the  intruder. 

“I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,”  said  the  sailor,  addressing 
the  minister  in  a  voice  distinctly  audible  to  all  the 
congregation.  “I  have  come  here  to  offer  thanks  for 


108 


life’s  little  ironies 


my  narrow  escape  from  shipwreck.  I  am  given  to 
understand  that  it  is  a  proper  thing  to  do,  if  you  have 
no  objection?” 

The  parson,  after  a  moment’s  pause,  said,  hesitat¬ 
ingly,  “I  have  no  objection;  certainly.  It  is  usual  to 
mention  any  such  wish  before  service,  so  that  the 
proper  words  may  be  used  in  the  General  Thanks¬ 
giving.  But,  if  you  wish,  we  can  read  from  the  form 
for  use  after  a  storm  at  sea.” 

“  Aye,  sure  ;  I  ain’t  particular,”  said  the  sailor. 

The  clerk  thereupon  directed  the  sailor  to  the  page 
in  the  prayer-book  where  the  collect  of  thanksgiving 
would  be  found,  and  the  rector  began  reading  it,  the 
sailor  kneeling  where  he  stood,  and  repeating  it  after 
him  word  by  word  in  a  distinct  voice.  The  people, 
who  had  remained  agape  and  motionless  at  the  pro¬ 
ceeding,  mechanical^  knelt  down  likewise;  but  they 
continued  to  regard  the  isolated  form  of  the  sailor 
who,  in  the  precise  middle  of  the  chancel -step,  re¬ 
mained  fixed  on  his  knees,  facing  the  east,  his  hat  be¬ 
side  him,  his  hands  joined,  and  he  quite  unconscious 
of  his  appearance  in  their  regard. 

When  his  thanksgiving  had  come  to  an  end,  he 
arose;  the  people  arose  also,  and  all  went  out  of  church 
together.  As  soon  as  the  sailor  emerged,  so  that  the 
remaining  daylight  fell  upon  his  face,  old  inhabitants 
began  to  recognize  him  as  no  other  than  Shadrach 
Jolliffe,  a  young  man  who  had  not  been  seen  at  Haven- 
pool  for  several  years.  A  son  of  the  town,  his  parents 
had  died  when  he  was  quite  young,  on  which  account 
he  had  early  gone  to  sea,  in  the  Newfoundland  trade. 

He  talked  with  this  and  that  townsman  as  he  walked, 
informing  them  that,  since  leaving  his  native  place 
years  before,  he  had  become  captain  and  owner  of 
a  small  coasting-ketch,  which  had  providentially  been 
saved  from  the  gale  as  well  as  himself.  Presently  he 


TO  PLEASE  HIS  WIFE 


109 


drew  near  to  two  girls  who  were  going  out  of  the 
church-yard  in  front  of  him;  they  had  been  sitting  in 
the  nave  at  his  entry,  and  had  watched  his  doings  with 
deep  interest,  afterwards  discussing  him  as  they  moved 
out  of  church  together.  One  was  a  slight  and  gentle 
creature,  the  other  a  tall,  large-framed,  deliberative 
girl.  Captain  Jolliffe  regarded  the  loose  curls  of  their 
hair,  their  backs  and  shoulders,  down  to  their  heels,  for 
some  time. 

“  Who  may  them  two  maids  be  ?”  he  whispered  to 
his  neighbor. 

“  The  little  one  is  Emily  Hanning  ;  the  tall  one,  Jo¬ 
anna  Phippard.” 

“  Ah  !  I  recollect  ’em  now,  to  be  sure.” 

He  advanced  to  their  elbow,  and  genially  stole  a 
gaze  at  them. 

“  Emily,  you  don’t  know  me  ?”  said  the  sailor  turn* 
ing  his  beaming  brown  eyes  on  her. 

“  I  think  I  do,  Mr.  Jolliffe,”  said  Emily,  shyly. 

The  other  girl  looked  straight  at  him  with  her  dark 
eyes. 

“The  face  of  Miss  Joanna  I  don’t  call  to  mind  so 
well,”  he  continued.  “  But  I  know  her  beginnings  and 
kindred.” 

They  walked  and  talked  together,  Jolliffe  narrating 
particulars  of  his  late  narrow  escape,  till  they  reached 
the  corner  of  Sloop  Lane,  in  which  Emily  Hanning 
dwelt,  when,  with  a  nod  and  smile,  she  left  them.  Soon 
the  sailor  parted  also  from  Joanna,  and,  having  no  es¬ 
pecial  errand  or  appointment,  turned  back  towards 
Emily’s  house.  She  lived  with  her  father,  who  called 
himself  an  accountant,  the  daughter,  however,  keeping 
a  little  stationery-shop  as  a  supplemental  provision  for 
the  gaps  of  his  somewhat  uncertain  business.  On 
entering,  Jolliffe  found  father  and  daughter  about  to 
begin  tea. 


110 


life’s  little  ironies 


“  Oh,  I  didn’t  know  it  was  tea-time,”  he  said.  ‘‘Aye, 
I’ll  have  a  cup  with  much  pleasure.” 

He  remained  to  tea  and  long  afterwards,  telling 
more  tales  of  his  seafaring  life.  Several  neighbors 
called  to  listen,  and  were  asked  to  come  in.  Somehow, 
Emily  Hanning  lost  her  heart  to  the  sailor  that  Sun¬ 
day  night,  and  in  the  course  of  a  week  or  two  there 
was  a  tender  understanding  between  them. 

One  moonlight  evening  in  the  next  month  Shadrach 
was  ascending  out  of  the  town  by  the  long  straight 
road  eastward,  to  an  elevated  suburb  where  the  more 
fashionable  houses  stood — if  anything  near  this  ancient 
port  could  be  called  fashionable — when  he  saw  a  figure 
before  him  whom,  from  her  manner  of  glancing  back, 
he  took  to  be  Emily;  but,  on  coming  up,  he  found  she 
was  Joanna  Phippard.  He  gave  a  gallant  greeting, 
and  walked  beside  her. 

“  Go  along,”  she  said,  “or  Emily  will  be  jealous!” 

He  seemed  not  to  like  the  suggestion,  and  remained. 

What  was  said  and  what  was  done  on  that  walk 
never  could  be  clearly  recollected  by  Shadrach ;  but 
in  some  way  or  other  Joanna  contrived  to  wean  him 
away  from  her  gentler  and  younger  rival.  From  that 
week  onward,  Jolliffe  was  seen  more  and  more  in  the 
wake  of  Joanna  Phippard  and  less  in  the  company  of 
Emily;  and  it  was  soon  rumored  about  the  quay  that 
old  Jolliffe’s  son,  who  had  come  home  from  sea,  was 
going  to  be  married  to  the  former  young  woman,  to 
the  great  disappointment  of  the  latter. 

Just  after  this  report  had  gone  about,  J oanna  dressed 
herself  for  a  walk  one  morning,  and  started  for  Emily’s 
house  in  the  little  cross -street.  Intelligence  of  the 
deep  sorrow  of  her  friend  on  account  of  the  loss  of 
Shadrach  had  reached  her  ears  also,  and  her  conscience 
reproached  her  for  winning  him  away. 

Joanna  was  not  altogether  satisfied  with  the  sailor. 


TO  PLEASE  HIS  WIFE 


111 


She  liked  his  attentions,  and  she  coveted  the  dignity 
of  matrimony;  but  she  had  never  been  deeply  in  love 
with  Jolliffe.  For  one  thing,  she  was  ambitious,  and 
socially  his  position  was  hardly  so  good  as  her  own, 
and  there  was  always  the  chance  of  an  attractive  wom¬ 
an  mating  considerably  above  her.  It  had  long  been 
in  her  mind  that  she  would  not  strongly  object  to  give 
him  back  again  to  Emily  if  her  friend  felt  so  very 
badly  about  him.  To  this  end  she  had  written  a  letter 
of  renunciation  to  Shadrach,  which  letter  she  carried  in 
her  hand,  intending  to  post  it  if  personal  observation 
of  Emily  convinced  her  that  her  friend  was  suffering. 

Joanna  entered  Sloop  Lane  and  stepped  down  into 
the  stationery-shop,  which  was  below  the  pavement 
level.  Emily’s  father  was  never  at  home  at  this  hour 
of  the  day,  and  it  seemed  as  though  Emily  were  not 
at  home  either,  for  the  visitor  could  make  nobody 
hear.  Customers  came  so  seldom  hither  that  a  five 
minutes’  absence  of  the  proprietor  counted  for  little. 
Joanna  waited  in  the  little  shop,  where  Emily  had 
tastefully  set  out — as  women  can — articles  in  them¬ 
selves  of  slight  value,  so  as  to  obscure  the  meagreness 
of  the  stock-in-trade,  till  she  saw  a  figure  pausing 
without  the  window  apparently  absorbed  in  the  con¬ 
templation  of  the  sixpenny  books,  packets  of  paper, 
and  prints  hung  on  a  string.  It  was  Captain  Shadrach 
Jolliffe,  peering  in  to  ascertain  if  Emily  were  there 
alone.  Moved  by  an  impulse  of  reluctance  to  meet 
him  in  a  spot  which  breathed  of  Emily,  she  slipped 
through  the  door  that  communicated  with  the  parlor 
at  the  back.  Joanna  had  frequently  done  so  before,  for 
in  her  friendship  with  Emily  she  had  the  freedom  of 
the  house  without  ceremony. 

Jolliffe  entered  the  shop.  Through  the  thin  blind 
which  screened  the  glass  partition  she  could  see  that 
he  was  disappointed  at  not  finding  Emily  there.  He 


112 


life’s  little  ironies 


was  about  to  go  out  again,  when  Emily's  form  dark¬ 
ened  the  doorway,  hastening  home  from  some  errand. 
At  sight  of  Jolliffe  she  started  back  as  if  she  would 
have  gone  out  again. 

“  Don’t  run  away,  Emily;  don’t !”  said  he.  “  What 

can  make  ve  afraid  ?” 

%/ 

“I’m  not  afraid,  Captain  Jolliffe.  Only — only  I  saw 
you  all  of  a  sudden,  and — it  made  me  jump  !”  Her 
voice  showed  that  her  heart  had  jumped  even  more 
than  the  rest  of  her. 

“I  just  called  as  I  was  passing,”  he  said. 

“  For  some  paper  ?”  She  hastened  behind  the 
counter. 

“  No,  no,  Emily;  why  do  ye  get  behind  there  ?  Why 
not  stay  by  me  ?  You  seem  to  hate  me.” 

“  I  don’t  hate  you.  How  can  I  ?” 

“Then  come  out,  so  that  we  can  talk  like  Christians.” 

Emily  obeyed  with  a  fitful  laugh,  till  she  stood  again 
beside  him  in  the  open  part  of  the  shop. 

“There’s  a  dear,”  he  said. 

“You  mustn’t  say  that,  Captain  Jolliffe;  because 
the  words  belong  to  somebody  else.” 

“  Ah  !  I  know  what  you  mean.  But,  Emily,  upon 
my  life  I  didn’t  know  till  this  morning  that  you  cared 
one  bit  about  me,  or  I  should  not  have  done  as  I 
have  done.  I  have  the  best  of  feelings  for  Joanna, 
but  I  know  that  from  the  beginning  she  hasn’t  cared 
for  me  more  than  in  a  friendly  way;  and  I  see  now 
the  one  I  ought  to  have  asked  to  be  my  wife.  You 
know,  Emily,  when  a  man  comes  home  from  sea  after 
a  long  voyage  he’s  as  blind  as  a  bat — he  can’t  see 
who’s  who  in  women.  They  are  all  alike  to  him, 
beautiful  creatures,  and  he  takes  the  first  that  comes 
easy,  without  thinking  if  she  loves  him,  or  if  he  might 
not  soon  love  another  better  than  her.  From  the  first 
I  inclined  to  you  most,  but  you  were  so  backward  and 


TO  Pi, EASE  HIS  WIFE 


113 


shy  that  I  thought  you  didn’t  want  me  to  bother  ’ee, 
and  so  I  went  to  Joanna.” 

“Don’t  say  any  more,  Mr.  Jolliffe,  don’t !”  said  she, 
choking.  “You  are  going  to  marry  Joanna  next 
month,  and  it  is  wrong  to — to — ” 

“  Oh,  Emily,  my  darling  !”  he  cried,  and  clasped  her 
little  figure  in  his  arms  before  she  was  aware. 

Joanna,  behind  the  curtain,  turned  pale,  tried  to 
withdraw  her  eyes,  but  could  not. 

“It  is  only  you  I  love  as  a  man  ought  to  love  the 
woman  he  is  going  to  marry;  and  I  know  this  from 
what  Joanna  has  said — that  she  will  willingly  let  me 
off  !  She  wants  to  marry  higher,  I  know,  and  only 
said  ‘Yes’  to  me  out  of  kindness.  A  fine,  tall  girl 
like  her  isn’t  the  sort  for  a  plain  sailor’s  wife;  you  be 
the  best  suited  for  that.” 

He  kissed  her  and  kissed  her  again,  her  flexible 
form  quivering  in  the  agitation  of  his  embrace. 

“  I  wonder — are  you  sure — Joanna  is  going  to  break 
off  with  you  ?  Oh,  are  you  sure  ?  Because — ” 

“I  know  she  would  not  wish  to  make  us  miserable. 
She  will  release  me.” 

“Oh,  I  hope  —  I  hope  she  will!  Don’t  stay  any 
longer,  Captain  Jolliffe  !” 

He  lingered,  however,  till  a  customer  came  for  a 
penny  stick  of  sealing-wax,  and  then  he  withdrew. 

Green  envy  had  overspread  Joanna  at  the  scene. 
She  looked  about  for  a  way  of  escape.  To  get  out 
without  Emily’s  knowledge  of  her  visit  was  indispen¬ 
sable.  She  crept  from  the  parlor  into  the  passage,  and 
thence  to  the  front  door  of  the  house,  where  she  let 
herself  noiselessly  into  the  street. 

The  sight  of  that  caress  had  reversed  all  her  reso¬ 
lutions.  She  could  not  let  Shadrach  go.  Reaching 
home,  she  burned  the  letter,  and  told  her  mother  that  if 
Captain  Jolliffe  called  she  was  too  unwell  to  see  him. 

8 


114 


life’s  LITTLE  IllONIES 


Shadrach,  however,  did  not  call.  He  gent  her  a  note 
expressing  in  simple  language  the  state  of  his  feelings; 
and  asked  to  be  allowed  to  take  advantage  of  the 
hints  she  had  given  him  that  her  affection,  too,  was  lit¬ 
tle  more  than  friendly,  by  cancelling  the  engagement. 

Looking  out  upon  the  harbor  and  the  island  beyond, 
he  waited  and  waited  in  his  lodgings  for  an  answer 
that  did  not  come.  The  suspense  grew  to  be  so  in¬ 
tolerable  that  after  dark  he  went  up  the  high  street. 
He  could  not  resist  calling  at  Joanna’s  to  learn  his 
fate. 

Her  mother  said  her  daughter  was  too  unwell  to  see 
him,  and  to  his  questioning  admitted  that  it  was  in 
consequence  of  a  letter  received  from  himself,  which 
had  distressed  her  deeply. 

“  You  know  what  it  was  about,  perhaps,  Mrs.  Phip- 
pard  ?”  he  said. 

Mrs.  Phippard  owned  that  she  did,  adding  that  it 
put  them  in  a  very  painful  position.  Thereupon  Sha- 
drach,  fearing  that  he  had  been  guilty  of  an  enormity, 
explained  that  if  his  letter  had  pained  Joanna  it  must 
be  owing  to  a  misunderstanding,  since  he  had  thought 
it  would  be  a  relief  to  her.  If  otherwise,  he  would 
hold  himself  bound  by  his  word,  and  she  was  to  think 
of  the  letter  as  never  having  been  written. 

Next  morning  he  received  an  oral  message  from  the 
young  woman,  asking  him  to  fetch  her  home  from  a 
meeting  that  evening.  This  he  did,  and  while  walk¬ 
ing  from  the  Town-hall  to  her  door,  with  her  hand  in 
his  arm,  she  said  : 

“  It  is  all  the  same  as  before  between  us,  isn’t  it, 
Shadrach  ?  Your  letter  was  sent  in  mistake?” 

“  It  is  all  the  same  as  before,”  he  answered,  “  if  you 
say  it  must  be.” 

“  I  wish  it  to  be,”  she  murmured,  with  hard  linea¬ 
ments,  as  she  thought  of  Emily. 


TO  PLEASE  HIS  WIFE 


115 


Shadrach  was  a  religious  and  scrupulous  man,  who 
respected  his  word  as  his  life.  Shortly  afterwards  the 
wedding  took  place,  Jolliffe  having  conveyed  to  Emily 
as  gently  as  possible  the  error  he  had  fallen  into  when 
estimating  Joanna’s  mood  as  one  of  indifference. 


II 

A  month  after  the  marriage  Joanna’s  mother  died, 
and  the  couple  were  obliged  to  turn  their  attention  to 
very  practical  matters.  Now  that  she  was  left  with¬ 
out  a  parent,  Joanna  could  not  bear  the  notion  of  her 
husband  going  to  sea  again  ;  but  the  question  was, 
What  could  he  do  at  home  ?  They  finally  decided 
to  take  on  a  grocer’s  shop  in  the  high  street,  the  good¬ 
will  and  stock  of  wThich  were  waiting  to  be  disposed 
of  at  that  time.  Shadrach  knew  nothing  of  shopkeep¬ 
ing,  and  Joanna  very  little,  but  they  hoped  to  learn. 

To  the  management  of  this  grocery  business  they 
now  devoted  all  their  energies,  and  continued  to  con¬ 
duct  it  for  many  succeeding  years,  without  great  suc¬ 
cess.  Two  sons  were  born  to  them,  whom  their  mother 
loved  to  idolatry,  although  she  had  never  passionately 
loved  her  husband;  and  she  lavished  upon  them  all 
her  forethought  and  care.  But  the  shop  did  not 
thrive,  and  the  large  dreams  she  had  entertained  of 
her  sons’  education  and  career  became  attenuated  in 
the  face  of  realities.  Tlieir  schooling  was  of  the 
plainest,  but,  being  by  the  sea,  they  grew  alert  in  all 
such  nautical  arts  and  enterprises  as  were  attractive 
to  their  age. 

The  great  interest  of  the  Jollifies’  married  life,  out¬ 
side  their  own  immediate  household,  had  lain  in  the 
marriage  of  Emily.  By  one  of  those  odd  chances 


116 


life’s  little  ikonies 


which  lead  those  that  lurk  in  unexpected  corners  to  be 
discovered,  while  the  obvious  are  passed  by,  the  gentle 
girl  had  been  seen  and  loved  by  a  thriving  merchant 
of  the  town,  a  widower,  some  years  older  than  herself, 
though  still  in  the  prime  of  life.  At  first  Emily  had 
declared  that  she  never,  never  could  marry  any  one ; 
but  Mr.  Lester  had  quietly  persevered,  and  had  at  last 
won  her  reluctant  assent.  Two  children  also  were  the 
fruits  of  this  union,  and,  as  they  grew  and  prospered, 
Emily  declared  that  she  had  never  supposed  that  she 
could  live  to  be  so  happy. 

The  worthy  merchant’s  home,  one  of  those  large, 
substantial  brick  mansions  frequently  jammed  up  in 
old-fashioned  towns,  faced  directly  on  the  high  street, 
nearly  opposite  to  the  grocery-shop  of  the  Jolliffes, 
and  it  now  became  the  pain  of  Joanna  to  behold  the 
woman  whose  place  she  had  usurped  out  of  pure  cov¬ 
etousness  looking  down  from  her  position  of  compar¬ 
ative  wealth  upon  the  humble  shop-window  with  its 
dusty  sugar-loaves,  heaps  of  raisins,  and  canisters  of 
tea,  over  which  it  was  her  own  lot  to  preside.  The 
business  having  so  dwindled,  Joanna  was  obliged  to 
serve  in  the  shop  herself,  and  it  galled  and  mortified 
her  that  Emily  Lester,  sitting  in  her  large  drawing¬ 
room  over  the  way,  could  witness  her  own  dancings 
up  and  down  behind  the  counter  at  the  beck  and  call 
of  wretched  twopenny  customers,  whose  patronage 
she  was  driven  to  welcome  gladly;  persons  to  whom 
she  was  compelled  to  be  civil  in  the  street,  while 
Emily  was  bounding  along  with  her  children  and 
her  governess,  and  conversing  with  the  genteelest 
people  of  the  town  and  neighborhood.  This  was 
what  she  had  gained  by  not  letting  Shadrach  Jolliffe, 
whom  she  had  so  faintly  loved,  carry  his  affection 
elsewhere. 

Shadrach  was  a  good  and  honest  man,  and  he  had 


TO  PLEASE  HIS  WIFE 


117 


been  faithful  to  her  in  heart  and  in  deed.  Time  had 
clipped  the  wings  of  his  love  for  Emily  in  his  devo¬ 
tion  to  the  mother  of  his  boys  ;  he  had  quite  lived 
down  that  impulsive  earlier  fancy,  and  Emily  had  be¬ 
come  in  his  regard  nothing  more  than  a  friend.  It 
was  the  same  with  Emily’s  feelings  for  him.  Possi¬ 
bly,  had  she  found  the  least  cause  for  jealousy,  Joan¬ 
na  would  almost  have  been  better  satisfied.  It  was 
in  the  absolute  acquiescence  of  Emily  and  Shadrach 
in  the  results  she  herself  had  contrived  that  her  dis¬ 
content  found  nourishment. 

Shadrach  was  not  endowed  with  the  narrow  shrewd¬ 
ness  necessary  for  developing  a  retail  business  in  the 
face  of  many  competitors.  Did  a  customer  inquire  if 
the  grocer  could  really  recommend  the  wondrous  sub¬ 
stitute  for  eggs  which  a  persevering  bagman  had  forced 
into  his  stock,  he  would  answer  that  “  when  you  did 
not  put  eggs  into  a  pudding  it  was  difficult  to  taste 
them  there  ” ;  and  when  he  was  asked  if  his  “  real 
Mocha  coffee  ”  was  real  Mocha,  he  would  say,  grimly, 
“as  understood  in  small  shops.” 

One  summer  day,  when  the  big  brick  house  oppo¬ 
site  was  reflecting  the  oppressive  sun’s  heat  into  the 
shop,  and  nobody  was  present  but  husband  and  wife, 
Joanna  looked  across  at  Emily’s  door,  where  a  wealthy 
visitor’s  carriage  had  drawn  up.  Traces  of  patronage 
had  been  visible  in  Emily’s  manner  of  late. 

“  Shadrach,  the  truth  is,  you  are  not  a  business¬ 
man,”  his  wife  sadly  murmured.  “You  were  not 
brought  up  to  shopkeeping,  and  it  is  impossible  for  a 
man  to  make  a  fortune  at  an  occupation  he  has  jumped 
into,  as  you  did  into  this.” 

Jolliffe  agreed  with  her,  in  this  as  in  everything  else. 
“  Not  that  I  care  a  rope’s  end  about  making  a  fortune,” 
he  said,  cheerfully.  “  I  am  happy  enough,  and  we  can 
rub  on  somehow.” 


118 


LIFE'S  LITTLE  IKONIES 


She  looked  again  at  the  great  house  through  the 
screen  of  bottled  pickles. 

“  Rub  on- — yes,”  she  said,  bitterly.  “  But  see  how 
well  off  Emily  Lester  is,  who  used  to  be  so  poor ! 
Her  boys  will  go  to  college,  no  doubt ;  and  think  of 
yours — obliged  to  go  to  the  parish  school.” 

Shadrach’s  thoughts  had  flown  to  Emily. 

“  Nobody,”  he  said,  good-humoredly,  “  ever  did  Em- 
iJy  abetter  turn  than  you  did,  Joanna,  when  you  warned 
her  off  me  and  put  an  end  to  that  little  simpering  non¬ 
sense  between  us,  so  as  to  leave  it  in  her  power  to  say 
‘Aye’  to  Lester  when  he  came  along.” 

This  almost  maddened  her. 

“  Don’t  speak  of  by-gones  !”  she  implored,  in  stern 
sadness.  “  But  think,  for  the  boys’  and  my  sake,  if 
not  for  your  own,  what  are  we  to  do  to  get  richer  ?” 

“Well,”  he  said,  becoming  serious,  “  to  tell  the  truth, 
I  have  always  felt  myself  unfit  for  this  business,  though 
I’ve  never  liked  to  say  so.  I  seem  to  want  more  room 
for  sprawling  ;  a  more  open  space  to  strike  out  in  than 
here  among  friends  and  neighbors.  I  could  get  rich 
as  well  as  any  man,  if  I  tried  my  own  way.” 

“  I  wish  you  would  !  What  is  your  way  ?” 

“To  go  to  sea  again.” 

She  had  been  the  very  one  to  keep  him  at  home, 
hating  the  semi-widowed  existence  of  sailors’  wives. 
But  her  ambition  checked  her  instincts  now,  and  she 
said  : 

“  Do  you  think  success  really  lies  that  way  ?” 

“I  am  sure  it  lies  in  no  other.” 

“  Do  you  want  to  go,  Shadrach  ?” 

“Not  for  the  pleasure  of  it,  I  can  tell  ’ee.  There’s 
no  such  pleasure  at  sea,  Joanna,  as  I  can  find  in  my 
back  parlor  here.  To  speak  honest,  I  have  no  love 
for  the  brine.  I  never  had  much.  But  if  it  comes  to 
a  question  of  a  fortune  for  you  and  the  lads,  it  is  an- 


E  ilk  ■  " 


TO  PLEASE  HIS  WIFE 


119 

other  thing.  That’s  the  only  way  to  it  for  one  bom 
and  bred  a  seafarer  as  I.” 

“  Would  it  take  long  to  earn  ?” 

“Well,  that  depends;  perhaps  not.” 

The  next  morning  Shadrach  pulled  from  a  chest  of 
drawers  the  nautical  jacket  he  had  worn  during  the 
first  months  of  his  return,  brushed  out  the  moths, 
donned  it,  and  walked  down  to  the  quay.  The  port 
still  did  a  fair  business  in  the  Newfoundland  trade, 
though  not  so  much  as  formerly. 

It  was  not  long  after  this  that  he  invested  all  he 
possessed  in  purchasing  a  part  ownership  in  a  brig,  of 
which  he  was  appointed  captain.  A  few  months  were 
passed  in  coast  trading,  during  which  interval  Sha¬ 
drach  wore  off  the  land -rust  that  had  accumulated 
upon  him  in  his  grocery  phase;  and  in  the  spring  the 
brig  sailed  for  Newfoundland. 

Joanna  lived  on  at  home  with  her  sons,  who  were 
now  growing  up  into  strong  lads,  and  occupying  them¬ 
selves  in  various  ways  about  the  harbor  and  quay. 

“Never  mind,  let  them  work  a  little,”  their  fond 
mother  said  to  herself.  “Our  necessities  compel  it 
now,  but  when  Shadrach  comes  home  they  will  be 
only  seventeen  and  eighteen,  and  they  shall  be  re¬ 
moved  from  the  port,  and  their  education  thoroughly 
taken  in  hand  by  a  tutor;  and  with  the  money  they’ll 
have  they  will  perhaps  be  as  near  to  gentlemen  as 
Emmy  Lester’s  precious  two,  with  their  algebra  and 
their  Latin!” 

The  date  for  Shadrach’s  return  drew  near  and  ar¬ 
rived,  and  he  did  not  appear.  Joanna  was  assured 
that  there  was  no  cause  for  anxiety,  sailing-ships  be¬ 
ing  so  uncertain  in  their  coming;  which  assurance 
proved  to  be  well-grounded,  for  late  one  wet  evening, 
about  a  month  after  the  calculated  time,  the  ship  was 
announced  as  at  hand,  and  presently  the  slip-slop  step 


120 


life’s  little  ironies 


of  Shadrach  as  the  sailor  sounded  in  the  passage,  and 
he  entered.  The  boys  had  gone  out  and  had  missed 
him,  and  Joanna  was  sitting  alone. 

As  soon  as  the  first  emotion  of  reunion  between  the 
couple  had  passed,  Jolliffe  explained  the  delay  as  ow¬ 
ing  to  a  small  speculative  contract, which  had  produced 
good  results. 

“  I  was  determined  not  to  disappoint  ’ee,”  he  said ; 

“  and  I  think  you’ll  own  that  I  haven’t !” 

*/ 

With  this  he  pulled  out  an  enormous  canvas  bag, 
full  and  rotund  as  the  money-bag  of  the  giant  whom 
Jack  slew,  untied  it,  and  shook  the  contents  out  into 
her  lap  as  she  sat  in  her  low  chair  by  the  fire.  A 
mass  of  guineas  (there  were  guineas  on  the  earth  in 
those  days)  fell  into  her  lap  with  a  sudden  thud,  weigh¬ 
ing  down  her  gown  to  the  floor. 

“  There!”  said  Shadrach,  complacently.  “  I  told  ’ee, 
dear,  I’d  do  it;  and  have  I  done  it  or  no?” 

Somehow  her  face,  after  the  first  excitement  of  pos¬ 
session,  did  not  retain  its  glory. 

“  It  is  a  lot  of  gold,  indeed,”  she  said.  “  And — is 
this  all?” 

“All?  Why,  dear  Joanna,  do  you  know  you  can 
count  to  three  hundred  in  that  heap  ?  It  is  a  fort¬ 
une  !” 

“  Yes — yes.  A  fortune— judged  by  sea;  but  judged 
by  land — ” 

However,  she  banished  considerations  of  the  money 
for  the  nonce.  Soon  the  boys  came  in,  and  next  Sun¬ 
day  Shadrach  returned  thanks  to  God — this  time  by 
the  more  ordinary  channel  of  the  italics  in  the  Gen¬ 
eral  Thanksgiving.  But  a  few  days  after,  when  the 
question  of  investing  the  money  arose,  he  remarked 
that  she  did  not  seem  so  satisfied  as  he  had  hoped. 

“Well,  you  see,  Shadrach,”  she  answered,  “we  count 
by  hundreds;  they  count  by  thousands  ”  (nodding  tow- 


TO  PLEASE  HIS  WIFE 


121 


ards  the  other  side  of  the  street),  “They  have  set  up 
a  carriage  and  pair  since  you  left.” 

“  Oh  !  have  they  ?” 

“My  dear  Shadrach,  you  don’t  know  how  the  world 
moves.  However,  we’ll  do  the  best  we  can  with  it. 
But  they  are  rich,  and  we  are  poor  still !” 

The  greater  part  of  a  year  was  desultorily  spent. 
She  moved  sadly  about  the  house  and  shop,  and  the 
boys  were  still  occupying  themselves  in  and  around 
the  harbor. 

“Joanna,”  he  said,  one  day,  “I  see  by  your  move¬ 
ments  that  it  is  not  enough.” 

“It  is  not  enough,”  said  she.  “My  boys  will  have 
to  live  by  steering  the  ships  that  the  Lesters  own;  and 
I  was  once  above  her  !” 

Jolliffe  was  not  an  argumentative  man,  and  he  only 
murmured  that  he  thought  he  would  make  another 
voyage.  He  meditated  for  several  days,  and  com¬ 
ing  home  from  the  quay  one  afternoon  said,  sud¬ 
denly  : 

“  I  could  do  it  for  ’ee,  dear,  in  one  more  trip,  for 
certain,  if — if—” 

“  Do  what,  Shadrach  ?” 

“  Enable  ’ee  to  count  by  thousands  instead  of  hun¬ 
dreds.” 

“If  what?” 

“  If  I  might  take  the  boys.” 

She  turned  pale. 

“  Don’t  say  that,  Shadrach,”  she  answered,  hastily. 

“  Why?” 

“  I  don’t  like  to  hear  it.  There’s  danger  at  sea.  I 
want  them  to  be  something  genteel,  and  no  danger  to 
them.  I  couldn’t  let  them  risk  their  lives  at  sea.  Oh* 
I  couldn’t  ever,  ever !” 

“Very  well,  dear,  it  sha’n’t  be  done.” 

Next  day,  after  a  silence,  she  asked  a  question; 


122 


life’s  little  ironies 


“  If  they  were  to  go  with  you  it  would  make  a  great 
deal  of  difference,  I  suppose,  to  the  profit?” 

“’Twould  treble  what  I  should  get  from  the  vent¬ 
ure  single-handed.  Under  my  eye  they  would  be  as 
good  as  two  more  of  myself.” 

Later  on  she  said  :  “  Tell  me  more  about  this.” 

“  Well,  the  boys  are  almost  as  clever  as  master- 
mariners  in  handling  a  craft,  upon  my  life !  There 
isn’t  a  more  cranky  place  in  the  South  Seas  than  about 
the  sand-banks  of  this  harbor,  and  they’ve  practised 
here  from  their  infancy.  And  they  are  so  steady.  I 
couldn’t  get  their  steadiness  and  their  trustworthiness 
in  half  a  dozen  men  twice  their  age.” 

“  And  is  it  very  dangerous  at  sea ;  now,  too,  there 
are  rumors  of  war?”  she  asked,  uneasily. 

“  Oh,  well,  there  be  risks.  Still — ” 

The  idea  grew  and  magnified,  and  the  mother’s  heart 
was  crushed  and  stifled  by  it.  Emmy  was  growing 
too  patronizing ;  it  could  not  be  borne.  Shadrach’s 
wife  could  not  help  nagging  him  about  their  compar¬ 
ative  poverty.  The  young  men,  amiable  as  their  fa¬ 
ther,  when  spoken  to  on  the  subject  of  a  voyage  of 
enterprise,  were  quite  willing  to  embark;  and  though 
they,  like  their  father,  had  no  great  love  for  the  sea, 
they  became  quite  enthusiastic  when  the  proposal  was 
detailed. 

Everything  now  hung  upon  their  mother’s  assent. 
She  withheld  it  long,  but  at  last  gave  the  word :  the 
young  men  might  accompany  their  father.  Shadrach 
was  unusually  cheerful  about  it.  Heaven  had  preserved 
him  hitherto,  and  he  had  uttered  his  thanks.  God 
would  not  forsake  those  who  were  faithful  to  him. 

All  that  the  Jollifies  possessed  in  the  world  was  put 
into  the  enterprise.  The  grocery  stock  was  pared 
down  to  the  least  that  possibly  could  afford  a  bare 
sustenance  to  Joanna  during  the  absence,  which  was 


TO  PLEASE  HIS  WIFE 


123 


to  last  through  the  usual  “New-f’nland  spell.”  How 
she  would  endure  the  weary  time  she  hardly  knew,  for 
the  boys  had  been  with  her  formerly ;  but  she  nerved 
herself  for  the  trial. 

The  ship  was  laden  with  boots  and  shoes,  ready¬ 
made  clothing,  fishing-tackle,  butter,  cheese,  cordage, 
sail-cloth,  and  many  other  commodities;  and  was  to 
bring  back  oil,  furs,  skins,  fish,  cranberries,  and  what 
else  came  to  hand.  But  much  trading  to  other  ports 
was  to  be  undertaken  between  the  voyages  out  and 
homeward,  and  thereby  much  money  made. 


Ill 

The  brig  sailed  on  a  Monday  morning  in  spring ; 
but  Joanna  did  not  witness  its  departure.  She  could 
not  bear  the  sight  that  she  had  been  the  means  of 
bringing  about.  Knowing  this,  her  husband  told  her 
overnight  that  they  were  to  sail  some  time  before 
noon  next  day ;  hence  when,  awakening  at  five  the 
next  morning,  she  heard  them  bustling  about  down¬ 
stairs,  she  did  not  hasten  to  descend,  but  lay  trying  to 
nerve  herself  for  the  parting,  imagining  they  would 
leave  about  nine,  as  her  husband  had  done  on  his 
previous  voyage.  When  she  did  descend  she  beheld 
words  chalked  upon  the  sloping  face  of  the  bureau ; 
but  no  husband  or  sons.  In  the  hastily-scrawled  lines 
Shadrach  said  they  had  gone  off  thus  not  to  pain  her 
by  a  leave-taking  ;  and  the  sons  had  chalked  under  his 
words  :  “  Good-bye,  mother.” 

She  rushed  to  the  quay  and  looked  down  the  harbor 
towards  the  blue  rim  of  the  sea,  but  she  could  only 
see  the  masts  and  bulging  sails  of  the  Joanna ;  no 
human  figures.  “’Tis  I  have  sent  them!”  she  said, 


124  life's  little  ironies 

wildly,  and  burst  into  tears.  In  the  house  the  chalked 
Good-bye”  nearly  broke  her  heart.  But  when  she 
had  re-entered  the  front- room  and  looked  across  at 
Emily’s,  a  gleam  of  triumph  lit  her  thin  face  at  her 
anticipated  release  from  the  thraldom  of  subservience. 

To  do  Emily  Lester  justice,  her  assumption  of  su¬ 
periority  was  mainly  a  figment  of  Joanna’s  brain. 
That  the  circumstances  of  the  merchant’s  wife  were 
more  luxurious  than  Joanna’s,  the  former  could  not 
conceal ;  though  whenever  the  two  met,  which  was 
not  very  often  now,  Emily  endeavored  to  subdue  the 
difference  by  every  means  in  her  power. 

The  first  summer  lapsed  away,  and  Joanna  meagre¬ 
ly  maintained  herself  by  the  shop,  which  now  con¬ 
sisted  of  little  more  than  a  window  and  a  counter. 
Emily  was,  in  truth,  her  only  large  customer ;  and 
Mrs.  Lester’s  kindly  readiness  to  buy  anything  and 
everything  without  questioning  the  quality  had  a  sting 
of  bitterness  in  it,  for  it  was  the  uncritical  attitude  of 
a  patron,  and  almost  of  a  donor.  The  long,  dreary 
winter  moved  on  ;  the  face  of  the  bureau  had  been 
turned  to  the  wall  to  protect  the  chalked  words  of 
farewell,  for  Joanna  could  never'  bring  herself  to  rub 
them  out,  and  she  often  glanced  at  them  with  wet 
eyes.  Emily’s  handsome  boys  came  home  for  the 
Christmas  holidays ;  the  university  was  talked  of  for 
them  ;  and  still  Joanna  subsisted,  as  it  were,  with  held 
breath,  like  a  person  submerged.  Only  one  summer 
more,  and  the  spell  would  end.  Towards  the  end  of 
the  time  Emily  called  on  her  quondam  friend.  She 
had  heard  that  Joanna  began  to  feel  anxious  ;  she 
had  received  no  letter  from  husband  or  sons  for  some 
months.  Emily’s  silks  rustled  arrogantly  when,  in 
response  to  Joanna’s  almost  dumb  invitation,  she 
squeezed  through  the  opening  of  the  counter  and  into 
the  parlor  behind  the  shop. 


125 


TO  PLEASE  HIS  WIFE 

“  Y ou  are  all  success,  and  I  am  all  the  other  way !” 
said  Joanna. 

“  But  why  do  you  think  so?”  said  Emily.  “They 
are  to  bring  back  a  fortune,  I  hear.” 

“  Ah !  will  they  come  ?  The  doubt  is  more  than  a 
woman  can  bear.  All  three  in  one  ship  —  think  of 
that !  And  I  have  not  heard  of  them  for  months !” 

“  But  the  time  is  not  up.  You  should  not  meet  mis¬ 
fortune  half-way.” 

“  Nothing  will  repay  me  for  the  grief  of  their  ab¬ 
sence.” 

“Then  why  did  you  let  them  go?  You  were  do¬ 
ing  fairly  well.” 

“  I  made  them  go !”  she  said,  turning  vehemently 
upon  Emily.  “  And  I’ll  tell  you  why.  I  could  not 
bear  that  we  should  be  only  muddling  on,  and  you  so 
rich  and  thriving.  Now  I  have  told  you,  and  you 
may  hate  me  if  you  will!” 

“  I  shall  never  hate  you,  Joanna.” 

And  she  proved  the  truth  of  her  words  afterwards. 
The  end  of  autumn  came  and  the  brig  should  have 
been  in  port,  but  nothing  like  the  Joanna  appeared  in 
the  channel  between  the  sands.  It  was  now  really 
time  to  be  uneasy.  Joanna  Jolliffe  sat  by  the  fire, 
and  every  gust  of  wind  caused  her  a  cold  thrill.  She 
had  always  feared  and  detested  the  sea;  to  her  it  was 
a  treacherous,  restless,  slimy  creature,  glorying  in  the 
griefs  of  women.  “  Still,”  she  said,  “  they  must  come !” 

She  recalled  to  her  mind  that  Shadrach  had  said  be¬ 
fore  starting  that  if  they  returned  safe  and  sound,  with 
success  crowning  their  enterprise,  he  would  go,  as  he 
had  gone  after  his  shipwreck,  and  kneel  with  his  sons 
in  the  church  and  offer  sincere  thanks  for  their  deliv¬ 
erance.  She  went  to  church  regularly  morning  and 
afternoon,  and  sat  in  the  most  forward  pew,  nearest 
the  chancel  step.  Her  eyes  were  mostly  fixed  on  that 

i 


126 


life’s  little  ironies 


step,  where  Shadrach  had  knelt  in  the  bloom  of  his 
young  manhood ;  she  knew  to  an  inch  the  spot  which 
his  knees  had  pressed  twenty  winters  before — his  out¬ 
line  as  he  had  knelt,  his  hat  on  the  step  beside  him. 
God  was  good.  Surely  her  husband  must  kneel  there 
again  —  a  son  on  each  side,  as  he  had  said  ;  George 
just  here,  Jim  just  there.  By  long  watching  the  spot 
as  she  worshipped,  it  became  as  if  she  saw  the  three 
returned  ones  there  kneeling;  the  two  slim  outlines  of 
her  boys,  the  more  bulky  form  between  them;  their 
hands  clasped,  their  heads  shaped  against  the  eastern 
wall.  The  fancy  grew  almost  to  an  hallucination; 
she  could  never  turn  her  worn  eyes  to  the  step  with¬ 
out  seeing  them  there. 

Nevertheless,  they  did  not  come.  Heaven  was  mer¬ 
ciful,  but  it  was  not  yet  pleased  to  relieve  her  soul. 
This  was  her  purgation  for  the  sin  of  making  them 
the  slaves  of  her  ambition.  But  it  became  more  than 
purgation  soon,  and  her  mood  approached  despair. 
Months  had  passed  since  the  brig  had  been  due,  but 
it  had  not  returned. 

Joanna  was  always  hearing  or  seeing  evidences  of 
their  arrival.  When  on  the  hill  behind  the  port, 
whence  a  view  of  the  open  channel  could  be  obtained, 
she  felt  sure  that  a  little  speck  on  the  horizon,  breaking 
the  eternally  level  waste  of  waters  southward,  was  the 
truck  of  the  Joanna’s  main-mast.  Or  when  in-doors, 
a  shout  or  excitement  of  any  kind  at  the  corner  of  the 
Town  Cellar,  where  the  high  street  joined  the  quay, 
caused  her  to  spring  to  her  feet  and  cry,  “’Tis  they!” 

But  it  was  not.  The  visionary  forms  knelt  every 
Sunday  afternoon  on  the  chancel  step,  but  not  the  real. 
Her  shop  had,  as  it  were,  eaten  itself  hollow.  In  the 
apathy  which  had  resulted  from  her  loneliness  and 
grief  she  had  ceased  to  take  in  the  smallest  supplies, 
and  thus  had  sent  away  her  last  customer. 


TO  PLEASE  HIS  WIFE 


127 


In  this  strait  Emily  Lester  tried  by  every  means  in 
her  power  to  aid  the  afflicted  woman,  but  she  met  with 
constant  repulses. 

“  I  don’t  like  you  !  I  can’t  bear  to  see  you  !”  Jo¬ 
anna  would  whisper  hoarsely,  when  Emily  came  to  her 
and  made  advances. 

“But  I  want  to  help  and  soothe  you,  Joanna,”  Em¬ 
ily  would  say. 

“  You  are  a  lady,  with  a  rich  husband  and  fine  sons. 
What  can  you  want  with  a  bereaved  crone  like  me  ?” 

“Joanna,  I  want  this  :  I  want  you  to  come  and  live 
in  my  house,  and  not  stay  alone  in  this  dismal  place 
any  longer.” 

“  And  suppose  they  come  and  don’t  find  me  at 
home?  You  wish  to  separate  me  and  mine  !  No,  I’ll 
stay  here.  I  don’t  like  you,  and  I  can’t  thank  you,  what¬ 
ever  kindness  you  do  me  !” 

However,  as  time  went  on  Joanna  could  not  afford 
to  pay  the  rent  of  the  shop  and  house  without  an  in¬ 
come.  She  was  assured  that  all  hope  of  the  return  of 
Shadrach  and  his  sons  was  vain,  and  she  reluctantly 
consented  to  accept  the  asylum  of  the  Lesters’  house. 
Here  she  was  allotted  a  room  of  her  own  on  the  second 
floor,  and  went  and  came  as  she  chose,  without  contact 
with  the  family.  Her  hair  grayed  and  whitened,  deep 
lines  channelled  her  forehead,  and  her  form  grew  gaunt 
and  stooping.  But  she  still  expected  the  lost  ones,  and 
when  she  met  Emily  on  the  staircase  she  would  say, 
morosely  :  “  I  know  why  you’ve  got  me  here  !  They’ll 
come,  and  be  disappointed  at  not  finding  me  at  home, 
and  perhaps  go  away  again  ;  and  then  you’ll  be  re¬ 
venged  for  my  taking  Shadrach  away  from  ’ee  !” 

Emily  Lester  bore  these  reproaches  from  the  grief- 
stricken  soul.  She  was  sure — all  the  people  of  Haven- 
pool  were  sure — that  Shadrach  and  his  sons  could  not 
return.  For  years  the  vessel  had  been  given  up  as  lost. 


128 


life's  little  ironies 


Nevertheless,  when  awakened  at  night  by  any  noise, 
Joanna  would  rise  from  bed  and  glance  at  the  shop 
opposite  by  the  light  from  the  flickering  lamp,  to  make 
sure  it  was  not  they. 

It  was  a  damp  and  dark  December  night,  six  years 
after  the  departure  of  the  brig  Joanna .  The  wind 
was  from  the  sea,  and  brought  up  a  fishy  mist  which 
mopped  the  face  like  moist  flannel.  Joanna  had 
prayed  her  usual  prayer  for  the  absent  ones  with 
more  fervor  and  confidence  than  she  had  felt  for 
months,  and  had  fallen  asleep  about  eleven.  It  must 
have  been  between  one  and  two  when  she  suddenly 
started  up.  She  had  certainly  heard  steps  in  the 
street,  and  the  voices  of  Sliadrach  and  her  sons  calling 
at  the  door  of  the  grocery-shop.  She  sprang  out  of 
bed,  and,  hardly  knowing  what  clothing  she  dragged 
on  herself,  hastened  down  Emily’s  large  and  carpeted 
staircase,  put  the  candle  on  the  hall-table,  unfastened 
the  bolts  and  chain,  and  stepped  into  the  street.  The 
mist,  blowing  up  the  street  from  the  quay,  hindered 
her  seeing  the  shop,  although  it  was  so  near  ;  but  she 
had  crossed  to  it  in  a  moment.  How  was  it?  No¬ 
body  stood  there.  The  wretched  woman  walked  wildly 
up  and  down  with  her  bare  feet — there  was  not  a  soul. 
She  returned  and  knocked  with  all  her  might  at  the 
door  which  had  once  been  her  own — they  might  have 
been  admitted  for  the  night,  unwilling  to  disturb  her 
till  the  morning.  It  was  not  till  several  minutes  had 
elapsed  that  the  young  man  who  now  kept  the  shop 
looked  out  of  an  upper  window,  and  saw  the  skeleton 
of  something  human  standing  below  half-dressed. 

“  Has  anybody  come  ?”  asked  the  form. 

“Oh,  Mrs.  Jollifle,  I  didn’t  know  it  was  you,”  said  the 
young  man,  kindly,  for  he  was  aware  how  her  baseless 
expectations  moved  her.  “  No,  nobody  has  come.” 

June,  1891. 


THE  MELANCHOLY  HUSSAR  OF  THE 
GERMAN  LEGION 


I 

Here  stretch  the  downs,  high  and  breezy  and  green, 
absolutely  unchanged  since  those  eventful  days.  A 
plough  has  never  disturbed  the  turf,  and  the  sod  that 
was  uppermost  then  is  uppermost  now.  Here  stood 
the  camp ;  here  are  distinct  traces  of  the  banks  thrown 
up  for  the  horses  of  the  cavalry,  and  spots  where  the 
midden-heaps  lay  are  still  to  be  observed.  At  night, 
when  I  walk  across  the  lonely  place,  it  is  impossible 
to  avoid  hearing,  amid  the  scourings  of  the  wind 
over  the  grass-bents  and  thistles,  the  old  trumpet  and 
bugle  calls,  the  rattle  of  the  halters  ;  to  help  seeing 
rows  of  spectral  tents  and  the  impedimenta  of  the 
soldiery  ;  from  within  the  canvases  come  guttural  syl¬ 
lables  of  foreign  tongues,  and  broken  songs  of  the 
fatherland  ;  for  they  were  mainly  regiments  of  the 
King’s  German  Legion  that  slept  round  the  tent-poles 
hereabout  at  that  time. 

It  was  nearly  ninety  years  ago.  The  British  uni¬ 
form  of  the  period,  with  its  immense  epaulettes,  queer 
cocked  -  hat,  breeches,  gaiters,  ponderous  cartridge- 
box,  buckled  shoes,  and  what  not,  would  look  strange 
and  barbarous  now.  Ideas  have  changed  ;  invention 
9 


130 


life’s  little  ironies 


has  followed  invention.  Soldiers  were  monumental 
objects  then.  A  divinity  still  hedged  kings  here  and 
there ;  and  war  was  considered  a  glorious  thing. 

Secluded  old  manor-houses  and  hamlets  lie  in  the 
ravines  and  hollows  among  these  hills,  where  a  stran¬ 
ger  had  hardly  ever  been  seen  till  the  king  chose  to 
take  the  baths  yearly  at  the  sea-side  watering-place  a 
few  miles  to  the  south;  as  a  consequence  of  which 
battalions  descended  in  a  cloud  upon  the  open  country 
around.  Is  it  necessary  to  add  that  the  echoes  of  many 
characteristic  tales,  dating  from  that  picturesque  time, 
still  linger  about  here  in  more  or  less  fragmentary 
form,  to  be  caught  by  the  attentive  ear?  Some  of 
them  I  have  repeated ;  most  of  them  I  have  forgotten  ; 
one  I  have  never  repeated,  and  assuredly  can  never 
forget. 

Phyllis  told  me  the  story  with  her  own  lips.  She 
was  then  an  old  lady  of  seventy-five,  and  her  auditor 
a  lad  of  fifteen.  She  enjoined  silence  as  to  her  share 
in  the  incident  till  she  should  be  “dead,  buried,  and 
forgotten.”  Her  life  was  prolonged  twelve  years  after 
the  day  of  her  narration,  and  she  has  now  been  dead 
nearly  twenty.  The  oblivion  which  in  her  modesty 
and  humility  she  courted  for  herself  has  only  partially 
fallen  on  her,  with  the  unfortunate  result  of  inflicting 
an  injustice  upon  her  memory;  since  such  fragments 
of  her  story  as  got  abroad  at  the  time,  and  have  been 
kept  alive  ever  since,  are  precisely  those  which  are 
most  unfavorable  to  her  character. 

It  all  began  with  the  arrival  of  the  York  Hussars, 
one  of  the  foreign  regiments  above  alluded  to.  Before 
that  day  scarcely  a  soul  had  been  seen  near  her  father’s 
house  for  weeks.  When  a  noise  like  the  brushing 
skirt  of  a  visitor  was  heard  on  the  door-step  it  proved 
to  be  a  scudding  leaf;  -when  a  carriage  seemed  to  be 
nearing  the  door,  it  was  her  father  grinding  his  sickle 


MELANCHOLY  HUSSAR  OF  THE  GERMAN  LEGION  131 


on  the  stone  in  the  garden  for  his  favorite  relaxation 
of  trimming  the  box  -  tree  borders  to  the  plots.  A 
sound  like  luggage  thrown  down  from  the  coach  was 
a  gun  far  away  at  sea;  and  what  looked  like  a  tall 
man  by  the  gate  at  dusk  was  a  yew  bush  cut  into  a 
quaint  and  attenuated  shape.  There  is  no  such  soli¬ 
tude  in  country  places  now  as  there  was  in  those  old 
days. 

Yet  all  the  while  King  George  and  his  court  were 
at  his  favorite  sea  -  side  resort,  not  more  than  five 
miles  off. 

The  daughter’s  seclusion  was  great,  but  beyond  the 
seclusion  of  the  girl  lay  the  seclusion  of  the  father. 
If  her  social  condition  was  twilight,  his  was  darkness. 
Yet  he  enjoyed  his  darkness,  while  her  twilight  op¬ 
pressed  her.  Dr.  Grove  had  been  a  professional  man 
whose  taste  for  lonely  meditation  over  metaphysical 
questions  had  diminished  his  practice  till  it  no  longer 
paid  him  to  keep  it  going;  after  which  he  had  re¬ 
linquished  it  and  hired  at  a  nominal  rent  the  small, 
dilapidated  half  -  farm  half  -  manor  -  house  of  this  ob¬ 
scure  inland  nook,  to  make  a  sufficiency  of  an  income 
which  in  a  town  would  have  been  inadequate  for  their 
maintenance.  He  stayed  in  his  garden  the  greater 
part  of  the  day,  growing  more  and  more  irritable  with 
the  lapse  of  time  and  the  increasing  perception  that 
he  had  wasted  his  life  in  the  pursuit  of  illusions.  He 
saw  his  friends  less  and  less  frequently.  Phyllis  be¬ 
came  so  shy  that  if  she  met  a  stranger  anywhere  in  her 
short  rambles  she  felt  ashamed  at  his  gaze,  walked 
awkwardly,  and  blushed  to  her  shoulders. 

Yet  Phyllis  was  discovered  even  here  by  an  ad¬ 
mirer,  and  her  hand  most  unexpectedly  asked  in 
marriage. 

The  king,  as  aforesaid,  was  at  the  neighboring  town, 
where  he  had  taken  up  his  abode  at  Gloucester  Lodge; 


132 


life’s  little  ironies 


and  his  presence  in  the  town  naturally  brought  many 
county  people  thither.  Among  these  idlers  —  many 
of  whom  professed  to  have  connections  and  interests 
with  the  court — was  one  Humphrey  Gould,  a  bachelor; 
a  personage  neither  young  nor  old ;  neither  good- 
looking  nor  positively  plain.  Too  steady  -  going  to 
be  a  a  buck  ”  (as  fast  and  unmarried  men  were  then 
called),  he  was  an  approximately  fashionable  man  of  a 
mild  type.  This  bachelor  of  thirty  found  his  way  to 
the  village  on  the  down;  beheld  Phyllis;  made  her 
father’s  acquaintance  in  order  to  make  hers,  and  by 
some  means  or  other  she  sufficiently  inflamed  his  heart 
to  lead  him  in  that  direction  almost  daily,  till  he  be¬ 
came  engaged  to  marry  her. 

As  he  was  of  an  old  local  family,  some  of  whose 
members  were  held  in  respect  in  the  county,  Phyllis, 
in  bringing  him  to  her  feet,  had  accomplished  what  was 
considered  a  brilliant  move  for  one  in  her  constrained 
position.  How  she  had  done  it  was  not  quite  known  to 
Phyllis  herself.  In  those  days  unequal  marriages  were 
regarded  rather  as  a  violation  of  the  laws  of  nature 
than  as  a  mere  infringement  of  convention,  the  more 
modern  view,  and  hence  when  Phyllis,  of  the  watering- 
place  bourgeoisie,  was  chosen  by  such  a  gentlemanly 
fellow,  it  was  as  if  she  were  going  to  be  taken  to 
heaven,  though  perhaps  the  uninformed  would  have 
seen  no  great  difference  in  the  respective  positions  of 
the  pair,  the  said  Gould  being  as  poor  as  a  crow. 

This  pecuniary  condition  was  his  excuse — probably 
a  true  one  —  for  postponing  their  union,  and  as  the 
winter  drew  nearer,  and  the  king  departed  for  the 
season,  Mr.  Humphrey  Gould  set  out  for  Bath,  prom¬ 
ising  to  return  to  Phyllis  in  a  few  weeks.  The  win¬ 
ter  arrived,  the  date  of  his  promise  passed,  yet  Gould 
postponed  his  coming,  on  the  ground  that  he  could 
not  very  easily  leave  his  father  in  the  city  of  their 


MELANCHOLY  HUSSAR  OF  THE  GERMAN  LEGION  133 


sojourn,  the  elder  having  no  other  relative  near  him. 
Phyllis,  though  lonely  in  the  extreme,  was  content. 
The  man  who  had  asked  her  in  marriage  was  a  desira¬ 
ble  husband  for  her  in  many  ways  ;  her  father  highly 
approved  of  his  suit ;  but  this  neglect  of  her  was  awk¬ 
ward,  if  not  painful,  for  Phyllis.  Love  him  in  the 
true  sense  of  the  word  she  assured  me  she  never  did, 
but  she  had  a  genuine  regard  for  him  ;  admired  a 
certain  methodical  and  dogged  way  in  which  he  some¬ 
times  took  his  pleasure  ;  valued  his  knowledge  of 
what  the  court  was  doing,  had  done,  or  was  about  to 
do  ;  and  she  was  not  without  a  feeling  of  pride  that 
he  had  chosen  her  when  he  might  have  exercised  a 
more  ambitious  choice. 

But  he  did  not  come,  and  the  spring  developed. 
His  letters  were  regular  though  formal  ;  and  it  is  not 
to  be  wondered  that  the  uncertainty  of  her  position, 
linked  with  the  fact  that  there  was  not  much  passion 
in  her  thoughts  of  Humphrey,  bred  an  indescribable 
dreariness  in  the  heart  of  Phyllis  Grove.  The  spring 
was  soon  summer,  and  the  summer  brought  the  king  ; 
but  still  no  Humphrey  Gould.  All  this  while  the  en¬ 
gagement  by  letter  was  maintained  intact. 

At  this  point  of  time  a  go{den  radiance  flashed  in 
upon  the  lives  of  people  here,  and  charged  all  youth¬ 
ful  thought  with  emotional  interest.  This  radiance 
was  the  York  Hussars. 


II 

The  present  generation  has  probably  but  a  very 
dim  notion  of  the  celebrated  York  Hussars  of  ninety 
years  ago.  They  were  one  of  the  regiments  of  the 
King’s  German  Legion,  and  (though  they  somewhat 


134 


life’s  little  ironies 


degenerated  later  on)  their  brilliant  uniforms,  their 
splendid  horses,  and,  above  all,  their  foreign  air  and 
mustaches  (rare  appendages  then),  drew  crowds  of  ad¬ 
mirers  of  both  sexes  wherever  they  went.  These  with 
other  regiments  had  come  to  encamp  on  the  downs 
and  pastures,  because  of  the  presence  of  the  king  in 
the  neighboring  town. 

The  spot  was  high  and  airy,  and  the  view  extensive, 
commanding  the  Isle  of  Portland  in  front,  and  reach¬ 
ing  to  St.  Aldhelm’s  Head  eastward,  and  almost  to  the 
Start  on  the  west. 

Phyllis,  though  not  precisely  a  girl  of  the  village, 
was  as  interested  as  any  of  them  in  this  military  in¬ 
vestment.  Her  father’s  home  stood  somewhat  apart, 
and  on  the  highest  point  of  ground  to  which  the  lane 
ascended,  so  that  it  was  almost  level  with  the  top  of 
the  church-tower  in  the  lower  part  of  the  parish.  Im¬ 
mediately  from  the  outside  of  the  garden  -  wall  the 
grass  spread  away  to  a  great  distance,  and  it  was 
crossed  by  a  path  which  came  close  to  the  wall. 
Ever  since  her  childhood  it  had  been  Phyllis’s  pleas¬ 
ure  to  clamber  up  this  fence  and  sit  on  the  top — a  feat 
not  so  difficult  as  it  may  seem,  the  walls  in  this  district 
\being  built  of  rubble,  without  mortar,  so  that  there 
were  plenty  of  crevices  for  small  toes. 

She  was  sitting  up  here  one  day,  listlessly  surveying 
the  pasture  without,  when  her  attention  was  arrested 
by  a  solitary  figure  walking  along  the  path.  It  was 
one  of  the  renowned  German  Hussars,  and  he  moved 
onward  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground,  and  with  the 
manner  of  one  who  wished  to  escape  company.  His 
head  would  probably  have  been  bent  like  his  eyes  but 
for  his  stiff  neck-gear.  On  nearer  view  she  perceived 
that  his  face  was  marked  with  deep  sadness.  With¬ 
out  observing  her,  he  advanced  by  the  foot-path  till  it 
brought  him  almost  immediately  under  the  wall. 


MELANCHOLY  HUSSAR  OF  THE  GERMAN  LEGION  185 


Phyllis  was  much  surprised  to  see  a  fine,  tall  soldier 
in  such  a  mood  as  this.  Her  theory  of  the  military, 
and  of  the  York  Hussars  in  particular  (derived  entire¬ 
ly  from  hearsay,  for  she  had  never  talked  to  a  soldier 
in  her  life),  was  that  their  hearts  were  as  gay  as  their 
accoutrements. 

At  this  moment  the  Hussar  lifted  his  eyes  and  no¬ 
ticed  her  on  her  perch,  the  white  muslin  neckerchief 
which  covered  her  shoulders  and  neck  where  left  bare 
by  her  low  gown,  and  her  white  raiment  in  general, 
showing  conspicuously  in  the  bright  sunlight  of  this 
summer  day.  He  blushed  a  little  at  the  suddenness 
of  the  encounter,  and  without  halting  a  moment  from 
his  pace  passed  on. 

All  that  day  the  foreigner’s  face  haunted  Phyllis; 
its  aspect  was  so  striking,  so  handsome,  and  his  eyes 
were  so  blue  and  sad  and  abstracted.  It  was  perhaps 
only  natural  that  on  some  following  day  at  the  same 
hour  she  should  look  over  that  wall  again,  and  wait 
till  he  had  passed  a  second  time.  On  this  occasion 
he  was  reading  a  letter,  and  at  the  sight  of  her  his  man¬ 
ner  was  that  of  one  who  had  half  expected  or  hoped 
to  discover  her.  He  almost  stopped,  smiled,  and  made 
a  courteous  salute.  The  end  of  the  meeting  was  that 
they  exchanged  a  few  words.  She  asked  him  what 
he  was  reading,  and  he  readily  informed  her  that  he 
was  reperusing  letters  from  his  mother  in  Germany; 
he  did  not  get  them  often,  he  said,  and  was  forced  to 
read  the  old  ones  a  great  many  times.  This  was  all 
that  passed  at  the  present  interview,  but  others  of  the 
same  kind  followed. 

Phyllis  used  to  say  that  his  English,  though  not 
good,  was  quite  intelligible  to  her,  so  that  their  ac¬ 
quaintance  was  never  hindered  by  difficulties  of  speech. 
Whenever  the  subject  became  too  delicate,  subtle,  or 
tender,  for  such  words  of  English  as  were  at  his  com- 


136 


life’s  little  ironies 


mand,  the  eyes  no  doubt  helped  out  the  tongue,  and — 
though  this  was  later  on — -the  lips  helped  out  the 
eyes.  In  short,  this  acquaintance,  unguardedly  made, 
and  rash  enough  on  her  part,  developed  and  ripened. 
Like  Desdemona,  she  pitied  him,  and  learned  his  history, 

His  name  was  Matthaus  Tina,  and  Saarbriick  his 
native  town,  where  his  mother  was  still  living.  His 
age  was  twenty-two,  and  he  had  already  risen  to  the 
grade  of  corporal,  though  he  had  not  long  been  in  the 
army.  Phyllis  used  to  assert  that  no  such  refined  or 
well  -  educated  young  man  could  have  been  found  in 
the  ranks  of  the  purely  English  regiments,  some  of 
these  foreign  soldiers  having  rather  the  graceful  man¬ 
ner  and  presence  of  our  native  officers  than  of  our 
rank  and  file. 

She  by  degrees  learned  from  her  foreign  friend  a 
circumstance  about  himself  and  his  comrades  which 
Phyllis  would  least  have  expected  of  the  York  Hus¬ 
sars.  So  far  from  being  as  gay  as  its  uniform,  the 
regiment  was  pervaded  by  a  dreadful  melancholy,  a 
chronic  homesickness,  which  depressed  many  of  the 
men  to  such  an  extent  that  they  could  hardly  attend 
to  their  drill.  The  worst  sufferers  were  the  younger 
soldiers  who  had  not  been  over  here  long.  They 
hated  England  and  English  life ;  they  took  no  inter¬ 
est  whatever  in  King  George  and  his  island  kingdom, 
and  they  only  wished  to  be  out  of  it  and  never  to  see 
it  any  more.  Their  bodies  were  here,  hut  their  hearts 
and  minds  were  always  far  away  in  their  dear  father- 
land,  of  which — brave  men  and  stoical  as  they  were 
in  many  ways — they  would  speak  with  tears  in  their 
eyes.  One  of  the  worst  of  the  sufferers  from  this  home- 
woe,  as  he  called  it  in  his  own  tongue,  was  Matthaus 
Tina,  whose  dreamy  musing  nature  felt  the  gloom  of 
exile  still  more  intensely  from  the  fact  that  he  had 
left  a  lonely  mother  at  home  with  nobody  to  cheer  her. 


MELANCHOLY  HUSSAR  OF  THE  GERMAN  LEGION  137 


Though  Phyllis,  touched  by  all  this,  and  interested 
in  his  history,  did  not  disdain  her  soldier  acquaint¬ 
ance,  she  declined  (according  to  her  own  account,  at 
least)  to  permit  the  young  man  to  overstep  the  line  of 
mere  friendship  for  a  long  while — as  long,  indeed,  as 
she  considered  herself  likely  to  become  the  possession 
of  another;  though  it  is  probable  that  she  had  lost  her 
heart  to  Matthaus  before  she  was  herself  aware.  The 
stone  wall  of  necessity  made  anything  like  intimacy 
difficult;  and  he  had  never  ventured  to  come,  or  to  ask 
to  come,  inside  the  garden,  so  that  all  their  conversa¬ 
tion  had  been  overtly  conducted  across  this  boundary. 


Ill 

But  news  reached  the  village  from  a  friend  of 
Phyllis’s  father  concerning  Mr.  Humphrey  Gould,  her 
remarkably  cool  and  patient  betrothed.  This  gentle¬ 
man  had  been  heard  to  say  in  Bath  that  he  considered 
his  overtures  to  Miss  Phyllis  Grove  to  have  reached 
only  the  stage  of  a  half-understanding;  and  in  view 
of  his  enforced  absence  on  his  father’s  account,  who 
was  too  great  an  invalid  now  to  attend  to  his  affairs, 
he  thought  it  best  that  there  should  be  no  definite 
promise  as  yet  on  either  side.  He  was  not  sure,  in¬ 
deed,  that  he  might  not  cast  his  eyes  elsewhere. 

This  account — though  only  a  piece  of  hearsay,  and 
as  such  entitled  to  no  absolute  credit — tallied  so  well 
with  the  infrequency  of  his  letters  and  their  lack  of 
warmth,  that  Phyllis  did  not  doubt  its  truth  for  one 
moment;  and  from  that  hour  she  felt  herself  free  to 
bestow  her  heart  as  she  should  choose.  Not  so  her 
father;  he  declared  the  whole  story  to  be  a  fabri¬ 
cation.  He  had  known  Mr.  Gould’s  family  from  his 


138 


life's  little  ironies 


boyhood ;  and  if  there  was  one  proverb  which  ex¬ 
pressed  the  matrimonial  aspect  of  that  family  well,  it 
was  “  Love  me  little,  love  me  long.5'  Humphrey  was 
an  honorable  man,  who  would  not  think  of  treating 
his  engagement  so  lightly.  “  Do  you  wait  in  patience,55 
he  said ;  “  all  will  be  right  enough  in  time.” 

From  these  words  Phyllis  at  first  imagined  that  her 
father  was  in  correspondence  with  Mr.  Gould,  and 
her  heart  sank  within  her;  for  in  spite  of  her  original 
intentions  she  had  been  relieved  to  hear  that  her  en¬ 
gagement  had  come  to  nothing.  But  she  presently 
learned  that  her  father  had  heard  no  more  of  Hum¬ 
phrey  Gould  than  she  herself  had  done;  while  he 
would  not  write  and  address  her  affianced  directly  on 
the  subject,  lest  it  should  be  deemed  an  imputation 
on  that  bachelor's  honor. 

“You  want  an  excuse  for  encouraging  one  or  other 
of  those  foreign  fellows  to  flatter  you  with  his  un¬ 
meaning  attentions,”  her  father  exclaimed,  his  mood 
having  of  late  been  a  very  unkind  one  towards  her. 
“  I  see  more  than  I  say.  Don’t  you  ever  set  foot  out¬ 
side  that  garden -fence  without  my  permission.  If  you 
want  to  see  the  camp  T’ll  take  you  myself  some  Sun¬ 
day  afternoon.” 

Phyllis  had  not  the  smallest  intention  of  disobeying 
him  as  to  her  actions,  but  she  assumed  herself  to  be  in¬ 
dependent  with  respect  to  her  feelings.  She  no  longer 
checked  her  fancy  for  the  Hussar,  though  she  was  far 
from  regarding  him  as  her  lover  in  the  serious  sense 
in  which  an  Englishman  might  have  been .  regarded  as 
such.  The  young  foreign  soldier  was  almost  an  ideal 
being  to  her,  with  none  of  the  appurtenances  of  an 
ordinary  house-dweller  ;  one  who  had  descended  she 
knew  not  whence,  and  would  disappear  she  knew  not 
whither;  the  subject  of  a  fascinating  dream  —  no 
more. 


MELANCHOLY  HUSSAR  OF  THE  GERMAN  LEGION  130 

They  met  continually  now— -mostly  at  dusk— during 
the  brief  interval  between  the  going  down  of  the  sun 
and  the  minute  at  which  the  last  trumpet-call  sum¬ 
moned  him  to  his  tent.  Perhaps  her  manner  had  be¬ 
come  less  restrained  latterly  ;  at  any  rate  that  of  the 
Hussar  was  so ;  he  had  grown  more  tender  every  day, 
and  at  parting  after  these  hurried  interviews,  she 
reached  down  her  hand  from  the  top  of  the  wall  that 
he  might  press  it.  One  evening  he  held  it  so  long  that 
she  exclaimed  “  The  wall  is  white,  and  somebody  in 
the  field  may  see  your  shape  against  it !” 

He  lingered  so  long  that  night  that  it  was  with  the 
greatest  difficulty  that  he  could  run  across  the  inter¬ 
vening  stretch  of  ground  and  enter  the  camp  in  time. 
On  the  next  occasion  of  his  awaiting  her  she  did  not 
appear  in  her  usual  place  at  the  usual  hour.  His  dis¬ 
appointment  was  unspeakably  keen;  he  remained  star¬ 
ing  blankly  at  the  wall,  like  a  man  in  a  trance.  The 
trumpets  and  tattoo  sounded,  and  still  he  did  not  go. 

She  had  been  delayed  purely  by  an  accident.  When 
she  arrived  she  was  anxious  because  of  the  lateness  of 
the  hour,  having  heard  the  sounds  denoting  the  clos¬ 
ing  of  the  camp  as  well  as  he.  She  implored  him  to 
leave  immediately. 

“  No,”  he  said,  gloomily.  “  I  shall  not  go  in  yet — 
the  moment  you  come — I  have  thought  of  your  com¬ 
ing  all  day.” 

“  But  you  may  be  disgraced  at  being  after  time  ?” 

<£  I  don’t  mind  that.  I  should  have  disappeared  from 
the  world  some  time  ago  if  it  had  not  been  for  two 
persons — my  beloved,  here,  and  my  mother  in  Saar- 
briick.  I  hate  the  army.  I  care  more  for  a  minute 
of  your  company  than  for  all  the  promotion  in  the 
world.” 

Thus  he  stayed  and  talked  to  her,  and  told  her  inter¬ 
esting  details  of  his  native  place,  and  incidents  of  his 


140 


life’s  little  ironies 


childhood,  till  she  was  in  a  simmer  of  distress  at  his 
recklessness  in  remaining.  It  was  only  because  she  in¬ 
sisted  on  bidding  him  good-night  and  leaving  the  wall 
that  he  returned  to  his  quarters. 

The  next  time  that  she  saw  him  he  was  without  the 
stripes  that  had  adorned  his  sleeve.  He  had  been 
broken  to  the  level  of  private  for  his  lateness  that 
night ;  and  as  Phyllis  considered  herself  to  be  the 
cause  of  his  disgrace  her  sorrow  was  deep.  But  the 
position  was  now  reversed  ;  it  was  his  turn  to  cheer 
her. 

“  Don’t  grieve,  meine  Liebliche  !”  he  said.  “  I  have 
got  a  remedy  for  whatever  comes.  First,  even  sup¬ 
posing  I  regain  my  stripes,  would  your  father  allow 
you  to  marry  a  non-commissioned  officer  in  the  York 
Hussars  ?” 

She  flushed.  This  practical  step  had  not  been  in 
her  mind  in  relation  to  such  an  unrealistic  person  as 
he  was,  and  a  moment’s  reflection  was  enough  for  it. 
“My  father  would  not — certainly  would  not,”  she  an¬ 
swered,  unflinchingly.  “It  cannot  be  thought  of! 
My  dear  friend,  please  do  forget  me ;  I  fear  I  am  ru¬ 
ining  you  and  your  prospects !” 

“Not  at  all,”  said  he.  “You  are  giving  this  coun¬ 
try  of  yours  just  sufficient  interest  to  me  to  make 
me  care  to  keep  alive  in  it.  If  my  dear  land  were 
here  also,  and  my  old  parent  with  you,  I  could  be 
happy  as  I  am,  and  would  do  my  best  as  a  soldier. 
But  it  is  not  so.  And  now  listen.  This  is  my  plan. 
That  you  go  with  me  to  my  own  country,  and  be  my 
wife  there,  and  live  there  with  my  mother  and  me.  I 
am  not  a  Hanoverian,  as  you  know,  though  I  entered 
the  army  as  such  ;  my  country  is  by  the  Saar,  and  is 
at  peace  with  France,  and  if  I  were  once  in  it  I  should 
be  free.” 

“  But  how  get  there?”  she  asked.  Phyllis  had  been 


MELANCHOLY  HUSSAR  OF  THE  GERMAN  LEGION  141 


rather  amazed  than  shocked  at  his  proposition.  Her 
position  in  her  father’s  house  was  growing  irksome 
and  painful  in  the  extreme  ;  his  parental  affection 
seemed  to  be  quite  dried  up.  She  was  not  a  native  of 
the  village,  like  all  the  joyous  girls  around  her  ;  and 
in  some  way  Matthaus  Tina  had  infected  her  with  his 
own  passionate  longing  for  his  country  and  mother 
and  home. 

“  But  how  ?”  she  repeated,  finding  that  he  did  not 
answer.  “  Will  you  buy  your  discharge  ?” 

“Ah,  no,”  he  said.  “That’s  impossible,  in  these 
times.  No  ;  I  came  here  against  my  will ;  why  should 
I  not  escape?  Now  is  the  time,  as  we  shall  soon  be 
leaving  here,  and  I  might  see  you  no  more.  This  is 
my  scheme.  I  will  ask  you  to  meet  me  on  the  highway 
two  miles  off,  on  some  calm  night  next  week  that  may 
be  appointed.  There  will  be  nothing  unbecoming  in 
it,  or  to  cause  you  shame ;  you  will  not  fly  alone  with 
me,  for  I  will  bring  with  me  my  devoted  young  friend 
Christoph,  an  Alsatian,  who  has  lately  joined  the  reg¬ 
iment,  and  who  has  agreed  to  assist  in  this  enterprise. 
We  shall  have  come  from  yonder  harbor,  where  wTe 
shall  have  examined  the  boats,  and  found  one  suited 
to  our  purpose.  Christoph  has  already  a  chart  of  the 
Channel,  and  we  will  then  go  to  the  harbor,  and  at 
midnight  cut  the  boat  from  her  moorings,  and  row 
away  round  the  point  out  of  sight ;  and  by  the  next 
morning  we  are  on  the  coast  of  France,  near  Cherbourg. 
The  rest  is  easy,  for  I  have  saved  money  for  the  land 
journey,  and  can  get  a  change  of  clothes.  I  will  write 
to  my  mother,  who  will  meet  us  on  the  way.” 

He  added  details  in  reply  to  her  inquiries,  which 
left  no  doubt  in  Phyllis’s  mind  of  the  feasibility  of  the 
undertaking.  But  its  magnitude  almost  appalled  her ; 
and  it  is  questionable  if  she  would  ever  have  gone  fur¬ 
ther  in  the  wild  adventure  if,  on  entering  the  house 

K 


142 


life’s  little  ironies 


that  night,  her  father  had  not  accosted  her  in  the  most 
significant  terms. 

“How  about  the  York  Hussars?”  he  said. 

“  They  are  still  at  the  camp ;  but  they  are  soon  go¬ 
ing  away,  I  believe.” 

“  It  is  useless  for  you  to  attempt  to  cloak  your  ac¬ 
tions  in  that  way.  You  have  been  meeting  one  of 
those  fellows;  you  have  been  seen  walking  with  him — 
foreign  barbarians,  not  much  better  than  the  French 
themselves  !  I  have  made  up  my  mind — don’t  speak 
a  word  till  I  have  done,  please — I  have  made  up  my 
mind  that  you  shall  stay  here  no  longer  while  they 
are  on  the  spot.  You  shall  go  to  your  aunt’s.” 

It  was  useless  for  her  to  protest  that  she  had  nevej 
taken  a  walk  -with  any  soldier  or  man  under  the  sun 
except  himself.  Her  protestations  were  feeble,  too, 
for  though  he  was  not  literally  correct  in  his  asser¬ 
tion,  he  was  virtually  only  half  in  error. 

The  house  of  her  father’s  sister  was  a  prison  to 
Phyllis.  She  had  quite  recently  undergone  experi¬ 
ence  of  its  gloom  ;  and  when  her  father  went  on  to 
direct  her  to  pack  what  would  be  necessary  for  her  to 
take,  her  heart  died  within  her.  In  after- years  she 
never  attempted  to  excuse  her  conduct  during  this 
week  of  agitation;  but  the  result  of  her  self- com¬ 
muning  was  that  she  decided  to  join  in  the  scheme  of 
her  lover  and  his  friend,  and  fly  to  the  country  which 
he  had  colored  with  such  lovely  hues  in  her  imagina¬ 
tion.  She  always  said  that  the  one  feature  in  his 
proposal  which  overcame  her  hesitation  was  the  ob¬ 
vious  purity  and  straightforwardness  of  his  intentions. 
He  showed  himself  to  be  so  virtuous  and  kind,  he 
treated  her  with  a  respect  to  which  she  had  never  be¬ 
fore  been  accustomed,  and  she  was  braced  to  the  ob¬ 
vious  risks  of  the  voyage  by  her  confidence  in  him. 


MELANCHOLY  HUSSAR  OF  THE  GERMAN  LEGION  143 


IV 

It  was  on  a  soft,  dark  evening  of  the  following  week 
that  they  engaged  in  the  adventure.  Tina  was  to 
meet  her  at  a  point  in  the  highway  at  which  the  lane 
to  the  village  branched  off.  Christoph  was  to  go 
ahead  of  them  to  the  harbor  where  the  boat  lay,  row 
it  round  the  Nothe — or  Lookout  as  it  was  called  in 
those  days— and  pick  them  up  on  the  other  side  of 
the  promontory,  which  they  were  to  reach  by  crossing 
the  harbor  bridge  on  foot,  and  climbing  over  the 
Lookout  hill. 

As  soon  as  her  father  had  ascended  to  his  room  she 
left  the  house,  and,  bundle  in  hand,  proceeded  at  a 
trot  along  the  lane.  At  such  an  hour  not  a  soul  was 
afoot  anywhere  in  the  village,  and  she  reached  the 
junction  of  the  lane  with  the  highway  unobserved. 
Here  she  took  up  her  position  in  the  obscurity  formed 
by  the  angle  of  a  fence,  whence  she  could  discern 
every  one  who  approached  along  the  turnpike -road 
without  being  herself  seen. 

She  had  not  remained  thus  waiting  for  her  lover 
longer  than  a  minute — though  from  the  tension  of  her 
nerves  the  lapse  of  even  that  short  time  was  trying — - 
when,  instead  of  the  expected  footsteps,  the  stage¬ 
coach  could  be  heard  descending  the  hill.  She  knew 
that  Tina  would  not  show  himself  till  the  road  was 
clear,  and  waited  impatiently  for  the  coach  to  pass. 
Nearing  the  corner  where  she  was  it  slackened  speed, 
and,  instead  of  going  by  as  usual,  drew  up  within 
a  few  yards  of  her.  A  passenger  alighted,  and  she 
heard  his  voice.  It  was  Humphrey  Gould’s. 

He  had  brought  a  friend  with  him,  and  luggage. 
The  luggage  was  deposited  on  the  grass,  and  the  coach 
went  on  its  route  to  the  royal  watering-place. 


144 


life’s  little  ironies 


“I  wonder  where  that  young  man  is  with  the  horse 
and  trap  ?”  said  her  former  admirer  to  his  companion. 
“I  hope  we  sha’n’t  have  to  wait  here  long.  I  told  him 
ten  o’clock  precisely.” 

“  Have  you  got  her  present  safe  ?” 

“ Phyllis’s?  Oh  yes.  It  is  in  this  trunk.  I  hope 
it  will  please  her.” 

“  Of  course  it  will.  What  woman  would  not  be 
pleased  with  such  a  handsome  peace-offering  ?” 

“  Well  —  she  deserves  it.  I’ve  treated  her  rather 
badly.  But  she  has  been  in  my  mind  these  last  two 
days  much  more  than  I  should  care  to  confess  to 
everybody.  Ah,  well;  I’ll  say  no  more  about  that. 
It  cannot  be  that  she  is  so  bad  as  they  make  out.  I 
am  quite  sure  that  a  girl  of  her  good  wit  would  know 
better  than  to  get  entangled  with  any  of  those  Han¬ 
overian  soldiers.  I  won’t  believe  it  of  her,  and  there’s 
an  end  on’t.” 

More  words  in  the  same  strain  were  casually  dropped 
as  the  two  men  waited;  words  which  revealed  to  her, 
as  by  a  sudden  illumination,  the  enormity  of  her  con¬ 
duct.  The  conversation  was  at  length  cut  off  by  the 
arrival  of  the  man  with  the  vehicle.  The  luggage 
was  placed  in  it,  and  they  mounted  and  were  driven 
on  in  the  direction  from  which  she  had  just  come. 

Phyllis  was  so  conscience-stricken  that  she  was  at 
first  inclined  to  follow  them;  but  a  moment’s  reflec¬ 
tion  led  her  to  feel  that  it  would  only  be  bare  justice 
to  Matthaus  to  wait  till  he  arrived,  and  explain  can¬ 
didly  that  she  had  changed  her  mind — difficult  as  the 
struggle  would  be  when  she  stood  face  to  face  with 
him.  She  bitterly  reproached  herself  for  having  be¬ 
lieved  reports  which  represented  Humphrey  Gould  as 
false  to  his  engagement,  when,  from  what  she  now 
heard  from  his  own  lips,  she  gathered  that  he  had 
been  living  full  of  trust  in  her.  But  she  knew  well 


MELANCHOLY  HUSSAR  OP  THE  GERMAN  LEGION  145 


enough  who  had  won  her  love.  Without  him  her  life 
seemed  a  dreary  prospect,  yet  the  more  she  looked  at 
his  proposal  the  more  she  feared  to  accept  it — so  wild 
as  it  was,  so  vague,  so  venturesome.  She  had  promised 
Humphrey  Gould,  and  it  was  only  his  assumed  faith¬ 
lessness  which  had  led  her  to  treat  that  promise  as 
naught.  His  solicitude  in  bringing  her  these  gifts 
touched  her;  her  promise  must  be  kept,  and  esteem 
must  take  the  place  of  love.  She  would  preserve  her 
self-respect.  She  would  stay  at  home,  and  marry  him, 
and  suffer. 

Phyllis  had  thus  braced  herself  to  an  exceptional 
fortitude  when,  a  few  minutes  later,  the  outline  of 
Matthaus  Tina  appeared  behind  a  field-gate,  over  which 
he  lightly  leaped  as  she  stepped  forward.  There  was 
no  evading  it,  he  pressed  her  to  his  breast. 

“It  is  the  first  and  last  time!”  she  wildly  thought, 
as  she  stood  encircled  by  his  arms. 

How  Phyllis  got  through  the  terrible  ordeal  of  that 
night  she  could  never  clearly  recollect.  She  always 
attributed  her  success  in  carrying  out  her  resolve  to 
her  lover’s  honor,  for  as  soon  as  she  declared  to  him 
in  feeble  words  that  she  had  changed  her  mind,  and 
felt  that  she  could  not,  dared  not,  fly  with  him,  he 
forbore  to  urge  her,  grieved  as  he  was  at  her  decision. 
Unscrupulous  pressure  on  his  part,  seeing  how  ro¬ 
mantically  she  had  become  attached  to  him,  would  no 
doubt  have  turned  the  balance  in  his  favor.  But  he 
did  nothing  to  tempt  her  unduly  or  unfairly. 

On  her  side,  fearing  for  his  safety,  she  begged  him 
to  remain.  This,  he  declared,  could  not  be.  “  I  can¬ 
not  break  faith  with  my  friend,”  said  he.  Had  he 
stood  alone  he  would  have  abandoned  his  plan.  But 
Christoph,  with  the  boat  and  compass  and  chart,  was 
waiting  on  the  shore ;  the  tide  would  soon  turn ;  his 
mother  had  been  warned  of  his  coming ;  go  he  must. 

10 


146 


life’s  little  ironies 


Many  precious  minutes  were  lost  while  he  tarried, 
unable  to  tear  himself  away.  Phyllis  held  to  her  re¬ 
solve,  though  it  cost  her  many  a  bitter  pang.  At  last 
they  parted,  and  he  went  down  the  hill.  Before  his 
footsteps  had  quite  died  away,  she  felt  a  desire  to  be¬ 
hold  at  least  his  outline  once  more,  and  running  noise¬ 
lessly  after  him,  regained  view  of  his  diminishing 
figure.  For  one  moment  she  was  sufficiently  excited 
to  be  on  the  point  of  rushing  forward  and  linking 
her  fate  with  his.  But  she  could  not.  The  courage 
which  at  the  critical  instant  failed  Cleopatra  of  Egypt 
could  scarcely  be  expected  of  Phyllis  Grove. 

A  dark  shape,  similar  to  his  own,  joined  him  in  the 
highway.  It  was  Christoph,  his  friend.  She  could 
see  no  more;  they  had  hastened  on  in  the  direction  of 
the  harbor  four  miles  ahead.  With  a  feeling  akin  to 
despair  she  turned  and  slowly  pursued  her  way  home¬ 
ward. 

Tattoo  sounded  in  the  camp;  but  there  was  no  camp 
for  her  now.  It  was  as  dead  as  the  camp  of  the  As¬ 
syrians  after  the  passage  of  the  Destroying  Angel. 

She  noiselessly  entered  the  house,  seeing  nobody, 
and  went  to  bed.  Grief,  which  kept  her  awake  at 
first,  ultimately  wrapped  her  in  a  heavy  sleep.  The 
next  morning  her  father  met  her  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs. 

“  Mr.  Gould  is  come !”  he  said,  triumphantly. 

Humphrey  was  staying  at  the  inn,  and  had  already 
called  to  inquire  for  her.  He  had  brought  her  a  pres¬ 
ent  of  a  very  handsome  looking-glass  in  a  frame  of 
repousse  silverwork,  which  her  father  held  in  his  hand. 
He  had  promised  to  call  again  in  the  course  of  an 
hour,  to  ask  Phyllis  to  walk  with  him. 

Pretty  mirrors  were  rarer  in  country-houses  at  that 
day  than  they  are  now,  and  the  one  before  her  won 
Phyllis’s  admiration.  She  looked  into  it,  saw  how 


MELANCHOLY  HUSSAR  OF  THE  GERMAN  LEGION  147 


heavy  her  eyes  were,  and  endeavored  to  brighten 
them.  She  was  in  that  wretched  state  of  mind  which 
leads  a  woman  to  move  mechanically  onward  in  what 
she  conceives  to  be  her  allotted  path.  Mr.  Humphrey 
had,  in  his  undemonstrative  way,  been  adhering  all 
along  to  the  old  understanding;  it  was  for  her  to  do 
the  same,  and  to  say  not  a  word  of  her  own  lapse. 
She  put  on  her  bonnet  and  tippet,  and  when  he  arrived 
at  the  hour  named  she  was  at  the  door  awaiting  him. 


y 

Phyllis  thanked  him  for  his  beautiful  gift;  but  the 
talking  was  soon  entirely  on  Humphrey’s  side  as  they 
walked  along.  He  told  her  of  the  latest  movements 
of  the  world  of  fashion — a  subject  which  she  willingly 
discussed  to  the  exclusion  of  anything  more  personal 
— and  his  measured  language  helped  to  still  her  dis¬ 
quieted  heart  and  brain.  Had  not  her  own  sadness  been 
what  it  was  she  must  have  observed  his  embarrass¬ 
ment.  At  last  he  abruptly  changed  the  subject. 

“  I  am  glad  you  are  pleased  with  my  little  present,” 
he  said.  “  The  truth  is  that  I  brought  it  to  propitiate 
’ee,  and  to  get  you  to  help  me  out  of  a  mighty  diffi¬ 
culty.” 

It  was  inconceivable  to  Phyllis  that  this  indepen¬ 
dent  bachelor,  whom  she  admired  in  some  respects, 
could  have  a  difficulty. 

“  Phyllis,  I’ll  tell  you  my  secret  at  once  ;  for  I  have 
a  monstrous  secret  to  confide  before  I  can  ask  your 
counsel.  The  case  is,  then,  that  I  am  married  :  yes, 
I  have  privately  married  a  dear  young  belle  ;  and  if 
you  knew  her,  and  I  hope  you  will,  you  would  say 
everything  in  her  praise.  But  she  is  not  quite  the  one 


148 


life’s  little  ironies 


that  my  father  would  have  choseu  for  me — you  know 
the  paternal  idea  as  well  as  I — and  I  have  kept  it  se¬ 
cret.  There  will  be  a  terrible  noise,  no  doubt  ;  but  I 
think  that  with  your  help  I  may  get  over  it.  If  you 
would  only  do  me  this  good  turn — when  I  have  told 
my  father,  I  mean  —  say  that  you  never  could  have 
married  me,  you  know,  or  something  of  that  sort ; 
’pon  my  life  it  will  help  to  smooth  the  way  mightily. 
I  am  so  anxious  to  win  him  round  to  my  point  of 
view,  and  not  to  cause  any  estrangement.” 

What  Phyllis  replied  she  scarcely  knew,  or  how  she 
counselled  him  as  to  his  unexpected  situation.  Yet 
the  relief  that  his  announcement  brought  her  was  per¬ 
ceptible.  To  have  confided  her  trouble  in  return  was 
what  her  aching  heart  longed  to  do  ;  and  had  Hum¬ 
phrey  been  a  woman  she  would  instantly  have  poured 
out  her  tale.  But  to  him  she  feared  to  confess  ;  and 
there  was  a  real  reason  for  silence,  till  a  sufficient  time 
had  elapsed  to  allow  her  lover  and  his  comrade  to  get 
out  of  harm’s  way. 

As  soon  as  she  reached  home  again  she  sought  a  sol¬ 
itary  place,  and  spent  the  time  in  half  regretting  that 
she  had  not  gone  away,  and  in  dreaming  over  the 
meetings  with  Matthaus  Tina  from  their  beginning  to 
their  end.  In  his  own  country,  among  his  own  coun¬ 
trywomen,  he  would  possibly  soon  forget  her,  even  to 
her  very  name. 

Her  listlessness  was  such  that  she  did  not  go  out  of 
the  house  for  several  days.  There  came  a  morning 
which  broke  in  fog  and  mist,  behind  which  the  dawn 
could  be  discerned  in  greenish  gray,  and  the  outlines 
of  the  tents,  and  the  rows  of  horses  at  the  ropes.  The 
smoke  from  the  canteen  fires  drooped  heavily. 

The  spot  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden  where  she  had 
been  accustomed  to  climb  the  wall  to  meet  Matthaus 
was  the  only  inch  of  English  ground  in  which  she  took 


MELANCHOLY  HUSSAR  OF  THE  GERMAN  LEGION  149 


any  interest ;  and  in  spite  of  the  disagreeable  haze 
prevailing,  she  walked  out  there  till  she  reached  the 
well-known  corner.  Every  blade  of  grass  was  weight¬ 
ed  with  little  liquid  globes,  and  slugs  and  snails  had 
crept  out  upon  the  plots.  She  could  hear  the  usual 
faint  noises  from  the  camp,  and  in  the  other  direction 
the  trot  of  farmers  on  the  road  to  the  town,  for  it  was 
market-day.  She  observed  that  her  frequent  visits  to 
this  corner  had  quite  trodden  down  the  grass  in  the 
angle  of  the  wall,  and  left  marks  of  garden  soil  on  the 
stepping-stones  by  which  she  had  mounted  to  look 
over  the  top.  Seldom  having  gone  there  till  dusk,  she 
had  not  considered  that  her  traces  might  be  visible  by 
day.  Perhaps  it  was  these  which  had  revealed  her 
trysts  to  her  father. 

While  she  paused  in  melancholy  regard,  she  fan¬ 
cied  that  the  customary  sounds  from  the  tents  were 
changing  their  character.  Indifferent  as  Phyllis  was 
to  camp  doings  now,  she  mounted  by  the  steps  to  the 
old  place.  What  she  beheld  at  first  awed  and  per¬ 
plexed  her  ;  then  she  stood  rigid,  her  fingers  hooked 
to  the  wall,  her  eyes  staring  out  of  her  head,  and  her 
face  as  if  hardened  to  stone. 

On  the  open  green  stretching  before  her  all  the  reg¬ 
iments  in  the  camp  were  drawn  up  in  line,  in  the  mid¬ 
front  of  which  two  empty  coffins  lay  on  the  ground. 
The  unwonted  sounds  which  she  had  noticed  came 
from  an  advancing  procession.  It  consisted  of  the 
band  of  the  York  Hussars  playing  a  dead  march;  next 
two  soldiers  of  that  regiment  in  a  mourning -coach, 
guarded  on  each  side,  and  accompanied  by  two  priests. 
Behind  came  a  crowd  of  rustics  who  had  been  attract¬ 
ed  by  the  event.  The  melancholy  procession  marched 
along  the  front  of  the  line,  returned  to  the  centre,  and 
halted  beside  the  coffins,  where  the  two  condemned 
men  were  blindfolded,  and  each  placed  kneeling  on 


160 


life’s  little  ironies 


his  coffin  ;  a  few  minutes’  pause  was  now  given,  while 
they  prayed. 

A  firing  party  of  twenty-four  men  stood  ready  with 
levelled  carbines.  The  commanding  officer,  who  had 
his  sword  drawn,  waved  it  through  some  cuts  of  the 
sword-exercise  till  he  reached  the  downward  stroke, 
whereat  the  firing  party  discharged  their  volley.  The 
two  victims  fell,  one  upon  his  face  across  his  coffin, 
the  other  backward. 

As  the  volley  resounded  there  arose  a  shriek  from 
the  wall  of  Dr.  Grove’s  garden,  and  some  one  fell  down 
inside  ;  but  nobody  among  the  spectators  without  no¬ 
ticed  it  at  the  time.  The  two  executed  hussars  were 
Matthaus  Tina  and  his  friend  Christoph.  The  soldiers 
on  guard  placed  the  bodies  in  the  coffins  almost  in¬ 
stantly  ;  but  the  colonel  of  the  regiment,  an  English¬ 
man,  rode  up  and  exclaimed,  in  a  stern  voice,  “Turn 
them  out — as  an  example  to  the  men  !” 

The  coffins  were  lifted  endwise,  and  the  dead  Ger¬ 
mans  flung  out  upon  their  faces  on  the  grass.  Then 
all  the  regiments  wheeled  in  sections  and  marched 
past  the  spot  in  slow  time.  When  the  survey  was 
over  the  corpses  were  again  coffined  and  borne  away. 

Meanwhile  Dr.  Grove,  attracted  by  the  noise  of  the 
volley,  had  rushed  out  into  his  garden,  where  he  saw 
his  wretched  daughter  lying  motionless  against  the 
wall.  She  was  taken  in-doors,  but  it  was  long  before 
she  recovered  consciousness,  and  for  weeks  they  de¬ 
spaired  of  her  reason. 

It  transpired  that  the  luckless  deserters  from  the 
York  Hussars  had  cut  the  boat  from  her  moorings  in 
the  adjacent  harbor,  according  to  their  plan,  and,  with 
two  other  comrades,  who  were  smarting  under  ill- 
treatment  from  their  colonel,  had  sailed  in  safetv 
across  the  Channel  ;  but  mistaking  their  bearings, 
they  steered  into  Jersey,  thinking  that  island  the 


MEL  AN  OHOLT  HUSSAB  OF  THE  OEBMAN  LE0IOM  151 

French  coast.  Here  they  were  perceived  to  be  de¬ 
serters,  and  delivered  up  to  the  authorities.  Matthaus 
and  Christoph  interceded  for  the  other  two  at  the 
court-martial,  saying  that  it  was  entirely  by  the  for¬ 
mer’s  representations  that  these  were  induced  to  go. 
Their  sentence  was  accordingly  commuted  to  flogging, 
the  death  punishment  being  reserved  for  their  leaders. 

The  visitor  to  the  old  Georgian  watering-place  who 
may  care  to  ramble  to  the  neighboring  village  under 
the  hills  and  examine  the  register  of  burials,  will  there 
find  two  entries  in  these  words : 

“ Matth :  Tina  (  Cor  pi.)  in  His  Majesty's  Begmt.  of 
York  Hussars ,  and  Shot  for  Desertion ,  was  Buried 
June  30th,  1801 ,  aged  22  years.  Born  in  the  town  of 
Sarsbruk ,  Germ, any. 

“  Christoph  Bless ,  belonging  to  His  Majesty's  Regmt. 
of  York  Hussars ,  who  was  Shot  for  Desertion ,  was 
Buried  June  30th ,  1801 ,  aged  22  years.  Born  at 
Bothaargen ,  Alsatia .” 

Their  graves  were  dug  at  the  back  of  the  little 
church,  near  the  wall.  There  is  no  memorial  to  mark 
the  spot,  but  Phyllis  pointed  it  out  to  me.  While  she 
lived  she  used  to  keep  their  mounds  neat ;  but  now 
they  are  overgrown  with  nettles,  and  sunk  nearly  flat. 
The  older  villagers,  however,  who  know  of  the  episode 
from  their  parents,  still  recollect  the  place  where  the 
soldiers  lie.  Phyllis  lies  near. 


October,  1889. 


THE  FIDDLER  OF  THE  REELS 


“Talking  of  Exhibitions,  World’s  Fairs,  and  what 
not,”  said  the  old  gentleman,  “  I  would  not  go  round 
the  corner  to  see  a  dozen  of  them  nowadays.  The 
ouly  exhibition  that  ever  made,  or  ever  will  make, 
any  impression  upon  my  imagination  was  the  first  of 
the  series,  the  parent  of  them  all,  and  now  a  thing  of 
old  times — the  Great  Exhibition  of  1851,  in  Hyde 
Park,  London.  None  of  the  younger  generation  can 
realize  the  sense  of  novelty  it  produced  in  us  who 
were  then  in  our  prime.  A  noun  substantive  went  so 
far  as  to  become  an  adjective  in  honor  of  the  occa¬ 
sion.  It  was  ‘exhibition  ’  hat,  ‘exhibition  ’  razor-strop, 
‘  exhibition  ’  watch  ;  nay,  even  ‘  exhibition  ’  weather, 
‘  exhibition  ’  spirits,  sweethearts,  babies,  wives — for  the 
time. 

“For  South  Wessex,  the  year  formed  in  many  ways 
an  extraordinary  chronological  frontier  or  transit-line, 
at  which  there  occurred  what  one  might  call  a  preci¬ 
pice  in  Time.  As  in  a  geological  ‘  fault,’  we  had  pre¬ 
sented  to  us  a  sudden  bringing  of  ancient  and  modern 
into  absolute  contact,  such  as  probably  in  no  other 
single  year  since  the  Conquest  was  ever  witnessed  in 
this  part  of  the  country.” 

These  observations  led  us  onward  to  talk  of  the  dif¬ 
ferent  personages,  gentle  and  simple,  who  lived  and 
moved  within  our  narrow  and  peaceful  horizon  at  that 


THE  FIDDLER  OF  THE  REELS 


158 


time  ;  and  of  three  people  in  particular,  whose  queer 
little  history  was  oddly  touched  at  points  by  the  Ex¬ 
hibition,  more  concerned  with  it  than  that  of  anybody 
else  who  dwelt  in  those  outlying  shades  of  the  world, 
Stickleford,  Mellstock,  and  Egdon.  First  in  promi¬ 
nence  among  these  three  came  Wat  Ollamoor — if  that 
were  his  real  name. 

He  was  a  woman’s  man — supremely  so — and  exter¬ 
nally  very  little  else.  To  men  he  was  not  attractive  ; 
perhaps  a  little  repulsive  at  times.  Musician,  dandy, 
and  company-man  in  practice;  veterinary  surgeon  in 
theory,  he  lodged  awhile  in  Mellstock  village,  coming 
from  nobody  knew  wThere  ;  though  some  said  his  first 
appearance  in  this  neighborhood  had  been  as  fiddle- 
player  in  a  show  at  Green  hill  Fair. 

Many  a  worthy  villager  envied  him  his  power  over 
unsophisticated  maidenhood — a  power  which  seemed 
sometimes  to  have  a  touch  of  the  weird  and  wizardly 
in  it.  Personally  he  was  not  ill-favored,  though  rather 
un-English,  his  complexion  being  a  rich  olive,  his  rank 
hair  dark  and  rather  clammy — made  still  clammier  by 
secret  ointments,  which,  when  he  came  fresh  to  a  party, 
caused  him  to  smell  like  “  boys’-love  ”  (southernwood) 
steeped  in  lamp-oil.  On  occasion  he  wore  curls — a 
double  row — running  almost  horizontally  around  his 
head.  But  as  these  were  sometimes  noticeably  absent, 
it  was  concluded  that  they  were  not  altogether  of 
Nature’s  making.  By  girls  whose  love  for  him  had 
turned  to  hatred  he  had  been  nicknamed  “  Mop,” 
from  this  abundance  of  hair,  which  was  long  enough 
to  rest  upon  his  shoulders  ;  as  time  passed,  the  name 
more  and  more  prevailed. 

His  fiddling,  possibly,  had  the  most  to  do  with  the 
fascination  he  exercised,  for,  to  speak  fairly,  it  could 
claim  for  itself  a  most  peculiar  and  personal  quality, 
like  that  in  a  moving  preacher.  There  were  tones  in 


154 


life’s  little  ironies 


it  which  bred  the  immediate  conviction  that  indolence 
and  averseness  to  systematic  application  were  all  that 
lay  between  “  Mop  ”  and  the  career  of  a  second  Paga¬ 
nini. 

While  playing  he  invariably  closed  his  eyes  ;  using 
no  notes,  and,  as  it  were,  allowing  the  violin  to  wander 
on  at  will  into  the  most  plaintive  passages  ever  heard 
by  rustic  man.  There  was  a  certain  lingual  character 
in  the  supplicatory  expressions  he  produced,  which 
would  wellnigh  have  drawn  an  ache  from  the  heart  of 
a  gate-post.  He  could  make  any  child  in  the  parish, 
who  was  at  all  sensitive  to  music,  burst  into  tears  in  a 
few  minutes  by  simply  fiddling  one  of  the  old  dance- 
tunes  he  almost  entirely  affected — country  jigs,  reels, 
and  “  Favorite  Quick -Steps”  of  the  last  century  — 
some  mutilated  remains  of  which  even  now  reappear 
as  nameless  phantoms  in  new  quadrilles  and  gallops, 
where  they  are  recognized  only  by  the  curious,  or  by 
such  old-fashioned  and  far-between  people  as  have 
been  thrown  with  men  like  Wat  Ollamoor  in  their 
early  life. 

His  date  was  a  little  later  than  that  of  the  old  Mell- 
stock  choir-band,  which  comprised  the  Dewys,  Mail, 
and  the  rest — in  fact,  he  did  not  rise  above  the  hori¬ 
zon  thereabout  till  those  well-known  musicians  were 
disbanded  as  ecclesiastical  functionaries.  In  their 
honest  love  of  thoroughness  they  despised  the  new 
man’s  style.  Theophilus  Dewy  (Reuben  the  tranter’s 
younger  brother)  used  to  say  there  was  no  “  plum¬ 
ness  ”  in  it— no  bowing,  no  solidity — it  was  all  fantas¬ 
tical.  And  probably  this  was  true.  Anyhow,  Mop 
had,  very  obviously,  never  bowed  a  note  of  church- 
music  from  his  birth  ;  he  never  once  sat  in  the  gallery 
of  Mellstock  church,  where  the  others  had  tuned  their 
venerable  psalmody  so  many  hundreds  of  times  ;  had 
never,  in  all  likelihood,  entered  a  church  at  all.  All 


THE  FIDDLER  OF  THE  REELS 


im 


were  devil’s  tunes  in  bis  repertory,  "He  could  no 
more  play  the  f  Wold  Hundredth ’  to  his  true  time  than 
he  could  play  the  brazen  serpent,”  the  tranter  would 
say.  (The  brazen  serpent  was  supposed  in  Mellstock 
to  be  a  musical  instrument  particularly  hard  to  blow.) 

Occasionally  Mop  could  produce  the  aforesaid  mov¬ 
ing  effect  upon  the  souls  of  grown-up  persons,  especial¬ 
ly  young  women  of  fragile  and  responsive  organiza¬ 
tion.  Such  a  one  was  Car’line  Aspent.  Though  she 
was  already  engaged  to  be  married  before  she  met 
him,  Car’line,  of  them  all,  was  the  most  influenced  by 
Mop  Ollamoor’s  heart -stealing  melodies,  to  her  dis¬ 
comfort,  nay,  positive  pain  and  ultimate  injury.  She 
was  a  pretty,  invocating,  weak -mouthed  girl,  whose 
chief  defect  as  a  companion  with  her  sex  was  a  ten¬ 
dency  to  peevishness  now  and  then.  At  this  time  she 
was  not  a  resident  in  Mellstock  parish,  where  Mop 
lodged,  but  lived  some  miles  off  at  Stickleford,  farther 
down  the  river. 

How  and  where  she  first  made  acquaintance  with 
him  and  his  fiddling  is  not  truly  known,  but  the  story 
was  that  it  either  began  or  was  developed  on  one 
spring  evening,  when,  in  passing  through  Lower  Mell¬ 
stock,  she  chanced  to  pause  on  the  bridge  near  his 
house  to  rest  herself,  and  languidly  leaned  over  the 
parapet.  Mop  was  standing  on  his  door-step,  as  was 
his  custom,  spinning  the  insidious  thread  of  semi-  and 
demi-semi-quavers  from  the  E  string  of  his  fiddle  for 
the  benefit  of  passers-by,  and  laughing  as  the  tears 
rolled  down  the  cheeks  of  the  little  children  hanging 
around  him.  Car’line  pretended  to  be  engrossed  with 
the  rippling  of  the  stream  under  the  arches,  but  in 
reality  she  was  listening,  as  he  knew.  Presently  the 
aching  of  the  heart  seized  her  simultaneously  with  a 
wild  desire  to  glide  airily  in  the  mazes  of  an  infinite 
dance.  To  shake  off  the  fascination  she  resolved  to  go 


156 


life’s  little  ironies 


on,  although  it  would  be  necessary  to  pass  him  as  he 
played.  On  stealthily  glancing  ahead  at  the  per¬ 
former,  she  found  to  her  relief  that  his  eyes  were 
closed  in  abandonment  to  instrumentation,  and  she 
strode  on  boldly.  But  when  closer  her  step  grew 
timid,  her  tread  convulsed  itself  more  and  more  ac¬ 
cordantly  with  the  time  of  the  melody,  till  she  very 
nearly  danced  along.  Gaining  another  glance  at  him 
when  immediately  opposite,  she  saw  that  one  of  his 
eyes  was  open,  quizzing  her  as  he  smiled  at  her  emo¬ 
tional  state.  Her  gait  could  not  divest  itself  of  its 
compelled  capers  till  she  had  gone  a  long  way  past 
the  house  ;  and  Car’line  was  unable  to  shake  off  the 
strange  infatuation  for  hours. 

After  that  day,  whenever  there  was  to  be  in  the 
neighborhood  a  dance  to  which  she  could  get  an  in¬ 
vitation,  and  where  Mop  Ollamoor  was  to  be  the  mu¬ 
sician,  Car’line  contrived  to  be  present,  though  it 
sometimes  involved  a  walk  of  several  miles  ;  for  he 
did  not  play  so  often  in  Stickleford  as  elsewhere. 

The  next  evidences  of  his  influence  over  her  were 
singular  enough,  and  it  would  require  a  neurologist 
to  fully  explain  them.  She  would  be  sitting  quietly, 
any  evening  after  dark,  in  the  house  of  her  father, 
the  parish-clerk,  which  stood  in  the  middle  of  Stickle¬ 
ford  village  street,  this  being  the  high-road  between 
Lower  Mellstock  and  Moreford,  six  miles  eastward. 
Here,  without  a  moment’s  warning,  and  in  the  midst 
of  a  general  conversation  between  her  father,  sister, 
and  the  young  man  before  alluded  to,  who  devotedly 
wooed  her  in  ignorance  of  her  infatuation,  she  would 
start  from  her  seat  in  the  chimney-corner  as  if  she 
had  received  a  galvanic  shock,  and  spring  convul¬ 
sively  towards  the  ceiling  ;  then  she  would  burst  into 
tears,  and  it  was  not  till  some  half-hour  had  passed 
that  she  grew  calm  as  usual.  Her  father,  knowing 


THE  FIDDLER  OF  THE  REELS 


157 


her  hysterical  tendencies,  was  always  excessively  anx¬ 
ious  about  this  trait  in  his  youngest  girl,  and  feared 
the  attack  to  be  a  species  of  epileptic  fit.  Not  so  her 
sister  Julia.  Julia  had  found  out  what  was  the  cause. 
At  the  moment  before  the  jumping,  only  an  excep¬ 
tionally  sensitive  ear  situated  in  the  chimney -nook 
could  have  caught  from  down  the  flue  the  beat  of  a 
man’s  footstep  along  the  highway  without.  But  it 
was  in  that  foot-fall,  for  which  she  had  been  waiting, 
that  the  origin  of  Car’line’s  involuntary  springing  lay. 
The  pedestrian  was  Mop  Ollamoor,  as  the  girl  well 
knew  ;  but  his  business  that  way  was  not  to  visit 
her  ;  he  sought  another  woman,  whom  he  spoke  of  as 
his  Intended,  and  who  lived  at  Moreford,  two  miles 
farther  on.  On  one,  and  only  one,  occasion  did  it 
happen  that  Car’line  could  not  control  her  utterance  ; 
it  was  when  her  sister  alone  chanced  to  be  present. 
“  Oh — oh — oh —  !”  she  cried.  “  He’s  going  to  her , 
and  not  coming  to  me  /” 

To  do  the  fiddler  justice,  he  had  not  at  first  thought 
greatly  of,  or  spoken  much  to,  this  girl  of  impression¬ 
able  mould.  But  he  had  soon  found  out  her  secret, 
and  could  not  resist  a  little  by-play  with  her  too  easily 
hurt  heart,  as  an  interlude  between  his  more  serious 
performances  at  Moreford.  The  two  became  well  ac¬ 
quainted,  though  only  by  stealth,  hardly  a  soul  in 
Stickleford  except  her  sister,  and  her  lover  Ned  Hip- 
croft,  being  aware  of  the  attachment.  Her  father 
disapproved  of  her  coldness  to  Ned  ;  her  sister,  too, 
hoped  she  might  get  over  this  nervous  passion  for  a 
man  of  whom  so  little  was  known.  The  ultimate 
result  was  that  Car’line’s  manly  and  simple  wooer 
Edward  found  his  suit  becoming  practically  hopeless. 
He  was  a  respectable  mechanic,  in  a  far  sounder  po¬ 
sition  than  Mop  the  nominal  horse-doctor  ;  but  when, 
before  leaving  her,  Ned  put  his  flat  and  final  ques- 


158 


life’s  little  ironies 


tion,  would  she  marry  him,  then  and  there,  now  or 
never,  it  was  with  little  expectation  of  obtaining  more 
than  the  negative  she  gave  him.  Though  her  father 
supported  him  and  her  sister  supported  him,  he  could 
not  play  the  fiddle  so  as  to  draw  your  soul  out  of  your 
body  like  a  spider’s  thread,  as  Mop  did,  till  you  felt 
as  limp  as  withy-wind  and  yearned  for  something  to 
cling  to.  Indeed,  Hipcroft  had  not  the  slightest  ear 
for  music  ;  could  not  sing  two  notes  in  tune,  much 
less  play  them. 

The  No  he  had  expected  and  got  from  her,  in  spite 
of  a  preliminary  encouragement,  gave  Ned  a  new 
start  in  life.  It  had  been  uttered  in  such  a  tone  of 
sad  entreaty  that  he  resolved  to  persecute  her  no 
more  ;  she  should  not  even  be  distressed  by  a  sight 
of  his  form  in  the  distant  perspective  of  the  street 
and  lane.  He  left  the  place,  and  his  natural  course 
was  to  London. 

The  railway  to  South  Wessex  was  in  process  of 
construction,  but  it  was  not  as  yet  opened  for  traffic ; 
and  Hipcroft  reached  the  capital  by  a  six  days’  trudge 
on  foot,  as  many  a  better  man  had  done  before  him. 
He  was  one  of  the  last  of  the  artisan  class  who  used 
that  now  extinct  method  of  travel  to  the  great  cen¬ 
tres  of  labor,  so  customary  then  from  time  imme¬ 
morial. 

In  London  he  lived  and  worked  regularly  at  his 
trade.  More  fortunate  than  many,  his  disinterested 
willingness  recommended  him  from  the  first.  Dur¬ 
ing  the  ensuing  four  years  he  was  never  out  of  em¬ 
ployment.  He  neither  advanced  nor  receded  in  the 
modern  sense  ;  he  improved  as  a  workman,  but  he  did 
not  shift  one  jot  in  social  position.  About  his  love 
for  Car’line  he  maintained  a  rigid  silence.  No  doubt 
he  often  thought  of  her  ;  but  being  always  occupied, 
and  having  no  relations  at  Stickleford,  he  held  no 


THE  FIDDLER  OF  THE  REELS 


159 


communication  with  that  part  of  the  country,  and 
showed  no  desire  to  return.  In  his  quiet  lodging  in 
Lambeth  he  moved  about  after  working-hours  with 
the  facility  of  a  wman,  doing  his  own  cooking,  at¬ 
tending  to  his  stocking-heels,  and  shaping  himself  by 
degrees  to  a  life-long  bachelorhood.  For  this  con¬ 
duct  one  is  bound  to  advance  the  canonical  reason 
that  time  could  not  efface  from  his  heart  the  image 
of  little  Car’line  Aspent — and  it  may  be  in  part  true ; 
but  there  was  also  the  inference  that  his  was  a  nature 
not  greatly  dependent  upon  the  ministrations  of  the 
other  sex  for  its  comforts. 

The  fourth  year  of  his  residence  as  a  mechanic  in 
London  was  the  year  of  the  Hyde-Park  Exhibition 
already  mentioned,  and  at  the  construction  of  this 
huge  glass-house,  then  unexampled  in  the  world’s  his¬ 
tory,  he  worked  daily.  It  was  an  era  of  great  hope 
and  activity  among  the  nations  and  industries.  Though 
Hipcroft  was,  in  his  small  way,  a  central  man  in  the 
movement,  he  plodded  on  with  his  usual  outward 
placidity.  Yet  for  him,  too,  the  year  was  destined 
to  have  its  surprises,  for  when  the  bustle  of  getting 
the  building  ready  for  the  opening  day  was  past,  the 
ceremonies  had  been  witnessed,  and  people  were  flock¬ 
ing  thither  from  all  parts  of  the  globe,  he  received 
a  letter  from  Car’line.  Till  that  day  the  silence  of 
four  years  between  himself  and  Stickleford  had  never 
been  broken. 

She  informed  her  old  lover,  in  an  uncertain  penman¬ 
ship  which  suggested  a  trembling  hand,  of  the  trouble 
she  had  been  put  to  in  ascertaining  his  address,  and 
then  broached  the  subject  which  had  prompted  her  to 
write.  Four  years  ago,  she  said,  with  the  greatest  del¬ 
icacy  of  which  she  was  capable,  she  had  been  so  fool¬ 
ish  as  to  refuse  him.  Her  wilful  wrongheadedness 
had  since  been  a  grief  to  her  many  times,  and  of  late 


160 


life’s  little  ironies 


particularly.  As  for  Mr.  Ollamoor,  he  had  been  ab¬ 
sent  almost  as  long  as  Ned — she  did  not  know  where. 
She  would  gladly  marry  Ned  now  if  he  were  to  ask 
her  again,  and  be  a  tender  little  wife  to  him  till  her 
life’s  end. 

A  tide  of  warm  feeling  must  have  surged  through 
Ned  Hipcroft’s  frame  on  receipt  of  this  news,  if  we 
may  judge  by  the  issue.  Unquestionably  he  loved 
her  still,  even  if  not  to  the  exclusion  of  every  other 
happiness.  This  from  his  Car’line,  she  who  had  been 
dead  to  him  these  many  years,  alive  to  him  again  as  of 
old,  was  in  itself  a  pleasant,  gratifying  thing.  Ned 
had  grown  so  resigned  to,  or  satisfied  with,  his  lonely 
lot,  that  he  probably  would  not  have  shown  much  ju¬ 
bilation  at  anything.  Still,  a  certain  ardor  of  preoc¬ 
cupation,  after  his  first  surprise,  revealed  how  deeply 
her  confession  of  faith  in  him  had  stirred  him.  Meas¬ 
ured  and  methodical  in  his  ways,  he  did  not  answer 
the  letter  that  day,  nor  the  next,  nor  the  next.  He 
was  having  “  a  good  think.”  When  he  did  answer  it, 
there  was  a  great  deal  of  sound  reasoning  mixed  in 
with  the  unmistakable  tenderness  of  his  reply ;  but 
the  tenderness  itself  wras  sufficient  to  reveal  that  he 
was  pleased  with  her  straightforward  frankness;  that 
the  anchorage  she  had  once  obtained  in  his  heart  was 
renewable,  if  it  had  not  been  continuously  firm. 

He  told  her — and  as  he  wrote  his  lips  twitched  hu¬ 
morously  over  the  few  gentle  words  of  raillery  he 
indited  among  the  rest  of  his  sentences — that  it  was 
all  very  well  for  her  to  come  round  at  this  time  of  day. 
Why  wouldn’t  she  have  him  when  he  wanted  her? 
She  had  no  doubt  learned  that  he  was  not  married,  but 
suppose  his  affections  had  since  been  fixed  on  another  ? 
She  ought  to  beg  his  pardon.  Still,  he  was  not  the  man  to 
forget  her.  But,  considering  how  he  had  been  used,  and 
what  he  had  suffered,  she  could  not  quite  expect  him  to 


THE  FIDDLER  OF  THE  REELS 


161 


go  down  to  Stickleford  and  fetch  her.  But  if  she 
would  come  to  him,  and  say  she  was  sorry,  as  was 
only  fair;  why,  yes,  he  would  marry  her,  knowing 
what  a  good  little  woman  she  was  to  the  core.  He 
added  that  the  request  for  her  to  come  to  him  was  a 
less  one  to  make  than  it  would  have  been  when  he  first 
left  Stickleford,  or  even  a  few  months  ago;  for  the 
new  railway  into  South  Wessex  was  now  open,  and 
there  had  just  begun  to  be  run  wonderfully  contrived 
special  trains,  called  excursion-trains,  on  account  of 
the  Great  Exhibition;  so  that  she  could  come  up  easily 
alone. 

She  said  in  her  reply  how  good  it  was  of  him  to 
treat  her  so  generously,  after  her  hot-and-cold  treat¬ 
ment  of  him ;  that  though  she  felt  frightened  at  the 
magnitude  of  the  journey,  and  was  never  as  yet  in  a 
railway-train,  having  only  seen  one  pass  at  a  distance, 
she  embraced  his  offer  with  all  her  heart;  and  would, 
indeed,  own  to  him  how  sorry  she  was,  and  beg  his 
pardon,  and  try  to  be  a  good  wife  always,  and  make 
up  for  lost  time. 

The  remaining  details  of  when  and  where  were  soon 
settled,  Car’iine  informing  him,  for  her  ready  identifi¬ 
cation  in  the  crowd,  that  she  would  be  wearing  “  my 
new  sprigged-laylock  cotton  gown,”  and  Ned  gayly 
responding  that,  having  married  her  the  morning  after 
her  arrival,  he  would  make  a  day  of  it  by  taking  her 
to  the  Exhibition.  One  early  summer  afternoon,  ac¬ 
cordingly,  he  came  from  his  place  of  work,  and  hast¬ 
ened  towards  Waterloo  Station  to  meet  her.  It  was 
as  wet  and  chilly  as  an  English  June  day  can  occasion¬ 
ally  be,  but  as  he  waited  on  the  platform  in  the  drizzle 
he  glowed  inwardly,  and  seemed  to  have  something  to 
live  for  again. 

The  “  excursion-train  ” — an  absolutely  new  depart¬ 
ure  in  the  history  of  travel  —  wras  still  a  novelty  on 

11 


m 


life’s  little  xkonies 


the  Wessex  line,  and  probably  everywhere.  Crowds 
of  people  had  flocked  to  all  the  stations  on  the  way  up 
to  witness  the  unwonted  sight  of  so  long  a  train’s  pas¬ 
sage,  even  where  they  did  not  take  advantage  of  the 
opportunity  it  offered.  The  seats  for  the  humbler  class 
of  travellers  in  these  early  experiments  in  steam-loco¬ 
motion  were  open  trucks,  without  any  protection  what¬ 
ever  from  the  wind  and  rain;  and  damp  weather  having 
set  in  with  the  afternoon,  the  unfortunate  occupants 
of  these  vehicles  were,  on  the  train  drawing  up  at  the 
London  terminus,  found  to  be  in  a  pitiable  condition 
from  their  long  journey;  blue  -  faced,  stiff-necked, 
sneezing,  rain-beaten,  chilled  to  the  marrow,  many  of 
the  men  being  hatless;  in  fact,  they  resembled  people 
who  had  been  out  all  night  in  an  open  boat  on  a  rough 
sea,  rather  than  inland  excursionists  for  pleasure.  The 
women  had  in  some  degree  protected  themselves  by 
turning  up  the  skirts  of  their  gowns  over  their  heads, 
but  as  by  this  arrangement  they  were  additionally  ex¬ 
posed  about  the  hips,  they  were  all  more  or  less  in  a 
sorry  plight. 

In  the  bustle  and  crush  of  alighting  forms  of  both 
sexes  which  followed  the  entry  of  the  huge  concate¬ 
nation  into  the  station,  Ned  Hipcroft  soon  discerned 
the  slim  little  figure  his  eye  was  in  search  of  in  the 
sprigged  lilac,  as  described.  She  came  up  to  him  with 
a  frightened  smile  —  still  pretty,  though  so  damp, 
weather-beaten,  and  shivering  from  long  exposure  to 
the  wind. 

“Oh,  Ned!”  she  sputtered,  “I — I — ”  He  clasped 
her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her,  whereupon  she  burst 
into  a  flood  of  tears. 

“You  are  wet,  my  poor  dear  !  I  hope  you’ll  not  get 
cold,”  be  said.  And  surveying  her  and  her  multifari¬ 
ous  surrounding  packages,  he  noticed  that  by  the  hand 
she  led  a  toddling  child — a  little  girl  of  three  or  so — - 


THE  FIDDLER  OF  THE  REELS 


163 


whose  hood  was  as  clammy  and  tender  face  as  blue  as 
those  of  the  other  travellers. 

“  Who  is  this — somebody  you  know  ?”  asked  Ned, 
curiously. 

“Yes,  Ned.  She’s  mine.” 

“Yours  ?” 

“  Yes — my  own  !” 

“Your  own  child?” 

“Yes !” 

“  Well— as  God’s  in—” 

“Ned,  I  didn’t  name  it  in  my  letter,  because,  you 
see,  it  would  have  been  so  hard  to  explain.  I  thought 
that  when  we  met  I  could  tell  you  how  she  happened 
to  be  born,  so  much  better  than  in  writing.  I  hope 
you’ll  excuse  it  this  once,  dear  Ned,  and  not  scold  me, 
now  I’ve  come  so  many,  many  miles  !” 

“This  means  Mr.  Mop  Ollamoor,  I  reckon  !”  said 
Hipcroft,  gazing  palely  at  them  from  the  distance  of 
the  yard  or  two  to  which  he  had  withdrawn  with  a 
start. 

Car’line  gasped.  “But  he’s  been  gone  away  for 
years!”  she  supplicated.  “And  I  never  had  a  young 
man  before  !  And  I  was  so  onlucky  to  be  catched 
the  first  time,  though  some  of  the  girls  down  there 
go  on  like  anything  !” 

Ned  remained  in  silence,  pondering. 

“You’ll  forgive  me,  dear  Ned  ?”  she  added,  begin¬ 
ning  to  sob  outright.  “  I  haven’t  taken  ’ee  in  after 
all,  because  you  can  pack  us  back  again,  if  you  want 
to  ;  though  ’tis  hundreds  o’  miles,  and  so  wet,  and 
night  a-coming  on,  and  I  with  no  money  !” 

“  What  the  devil  can  I  do?”  Hipcroft  groaned. 

A  more  pitiable  picture  than  the  pair  of  helpless 
creatures  presented  was  never  seen  on  a  rainy  day,  as 
they  stood  on  the  great,  gaunt,  puddled  platform,  a 
whiff  of  drizzle  blowing  under  the  roof  upon  them 


164 


life’s  little  ironies 


now  and  then  ;  the  pretty  attire  in  which  they  had 
started  from  Stickleford  in  the  early  morning  bemud- 
dled  and  sodden,  weariness  on  their  faces,  and  fear  of 
him  in  their  eyes  ;  for  the  child  began  to  look  as  if 
she  thought  she  too  had  done  some  wrong,  remaining 
in  an  appalled  silence  till  the  tears  rolled  down  her 
chubby  cheeks. 

“What’s  the  matter,  my  little  maid?”  said  Ned, 
mechanically. 

“I  do  want  to  go  home  !”  she  let  out,  in  tones  that 
told  of  a  bursting  heart.  “And  my  totties  be  cold, 
an’  I  sha’n’t  have  no  bread-an’-butter  no  more  !” 

“  I  don’t  know  what  to  say  to  it  all !”  declared 
Ned,  his  own  eye  moist  as  he  turned  and  walked  a 
few  steps  with  his  head  down  ;  then  regarded  them 
again  point-blank.  From  the  child  escaped  troubled 
breaths  and  silently  welling  tears. 

“Want  some  bread-and-butter,  do  ’ee?”  he  said, 
with  factitious  hardness. 

“  Ye-e-s !” 

“Well,  I  dare  say  I  can  get  ’ee  a  bit.  Naturally, 
you  must  want  some.  And  you,  too,  for  that  matter, 
Car’line.” 

“  I  do  feel  a  little  hungered.  But  I  can  keep  it  off,” 
she  murmured. 

“Folk  shouldn’t  do  that,”  he  said,  gruffly.  .  .  . 
“  There,  come  along  !”  He  caught  up  the  child  as 
he  added,  “You  must  bide  here  to-night,  anyhow,  I 
s’pose  !  What  can  you  do  otherwise?  I’ll  get ’ee 
some  tea  and  victuals  ;  and  as  for  this  job,  I’m  sure  I 
don’t  know  what  to  say.  This  is  the  way  out.” 

They  pursued  their  way,  without  speaking,  to  Ned’s 
lodgings,  which  were  not  far  off.  There  he  dried 
them  and  made  them  comfortable,  and  prepared  tea; 
they  thankfully  sat  down.  The  ready-made  household 
of  which  he  suddenly  found  himself  the  head  imparted 


THE  FIDDLER  OF  THE  REELS 


165 


a  cosey  aspect  to  his  room,  and  a  paternal  one  to  him¬ 
self.  Presently  he  turned  to  the  child  and  kissed  her 
now  blooming  cheeks  ;  and,  looking  wistfully  at  Car’- 
line,  kissed  her  also. 

“I  don’t  see  how  I  can  send  ’ee  back  all  them 
miles,”  he  growled,  “now  you’ve  come  all  the  way  o’ 
purpose  to  join  me.  But  you  must  trust  me,  Car’line, 
and  show  you’ve  real  faith  in  me.  Well,  do  you  feel 
better  now,  my  little  woman  ?” 

The  child  nodded,  her  mouth  being  otherwise  occu¬ 
pied. 

“I  did  trust  you,  Ned,  in  coming;  and  I  shall  al- 

wavs !” 

%/ 

Thus,  without  any  definite  agreement  to  forgive 
her,  he  tacitly  acquiesced  in  the  fate  that  Heaven  had 
sent  him  ;  and  on  the  day  of  their  marriage  (which 
was  not  quite  so  soon  as  he  had  expected  it  could  be, 
on  account  of  the  time  necessary  for  banns)  he  took 
her  to  the  Exhibition  when  they  came  back  from 
church,  as  he  had  promised.  While  standing  near  a 
large  mirror  in  one  of  the  courts  devoted  to  furniture, 
Car’line  started,  for  in  the  glass  appeared  the  reflec¬ 
tion  of  a  form  exactly  resembling  Mop  Ollamoor’s — -so 
exactly  that  it  seemed  impossible  to  believe  anybody 
but  that  artist  in  person  to  be  the  original.  On  pass¬ 
ing  round  the  objects  which  hemmed  in  Ned,  her,  and 
the  child  from  a  direct  view,  no  Mop  was  to  be  seen. 
Whether  he  were  really  in  London  or  not  at  that  time 
was  never  known  ;  and  Car’line  always  stoutly  denied 
that  her  readiness  to  go  and  meet  Ned  in  town  arose 
from  any  rumor  that  Mop  had  also  gone  thither  ; 
which  denial  there  was  no  reasonable  ground  for 
doubting. 

And  then  the  year  glided  away,  and  the  Exhibition 
folded  itself  up  and  became  a  thing  of  the  past.  The 
park  trees  that  had  been  enclosed  for  six  months  were 


166 


life’s  little  ironies 


again  exposed  to  the  winds  and  storms,  and  the  sod 
grew  green  anew.  Ned  found  that  Car’line  resolved 
herself  into  a  very  good  wife  and  companion,  though 
she  had  made  herself  what  is  called  cheap  to  him;  but 
in  that  she  was  like  another  domestic  article,  a  cheap 
teapot,  which  often  brews  better  tea  than  a  dear  one. 
One  autumn  Hipcroft  found  himself  with  but  little 
work  to  do,  and  a  prospect  of  less  for  the  winter. 
Both  being  country  born  and  bred,  they  fancied  they 
would  like  to  live  again  in  their  natural  atmosphere. 
It  was  accordingly  decided  between  them  that  they 
should  leave  the  pent-up  London  lodging,  and  that  Ned 
should  seek  out  employment  near  his  native  place,  his 
wife  and  her  daughter  staying  with  Car’line’s  father 
during  the  search  for  occupation  and  an  abode  of  their 
own. 

Tinglings  of  pleasure  pervaded  Car’line’s  spasmodic 
little  frame  as  she  journeyed  down  with  Ned  to  the 
place  she  had  left  two  or  three  years  before  in  silence 
and  under  a  cloud.  To  return  to  where  she  had  once 
been  despised,  a  smiling  London  wife  with  a  distinct 
London  accent,  was  a  triumph  which  the  world  did 
not  witness  every  day. 

The  train  did  not  stop  at  the  petty  road-side  station 
that  lay  nearest  to  Stickleford,  and  the  trio  went  on 
to  Casterbridge.  Ned  thought  it  a  good  opportunity 
to  make  a  few  preliminary  inquiries  for  employment 
at  workshops  in  the  borough  where  he  had  been 
known;  and  feeling  cold  from  her  journey,  and  it  being 
dry  underfoot  and  only  dusk  as  yet,  with  a  moon  on 
the  point  of  rising,  Car’line  and  her  little  girl  walked 
on  towards  Stickleford,  leaving  Ned  to  follow  at  a 
quicker  pace,  and  pick  her  up  at  a  certain  half-way 
house,  widely  known  as  an  inn. 

The  woman  and  child  pursued  the  well-remembered 
way  comfortably  enough,  though  they  were  both  be- 


THE  FIDDLE  it  OF  THE  KEELS 


167 


coming  wearied.  In  the  course  of  three  miles  they 
had  passed  Heedless  William’s  Pond,  the  familiar 
landmark  by  Bloom’s  End,  and  were  drawing  near 
the  Quiet  Woman  Inn,  a  lone  road-side  hostel  on  the 
lower  verge  of  the  Egdon  Heath,  since  and  for  many 
years  abolished.  In  stepping  up  towards  it  Car’line 
heard  more  voices  within  than  had  formerly  been  cus¬ 
tomary  at  such  an  hour,  and  she  learned  that  an  auc¬ 
tion  of  fat  stock  had  been  held  near  the  spot  that  af¬ 
ternoon.  The  child  would  be  the  better  for  a  rest  as 
well  as  herself,  she  thought,  and  she  entered. 

The  guests  and  customers  overflowed  into  the  pas¬ 
sage,  and  Car’line  had  no  sooner  crossed  the  threshold 
than  a  man  whom  she  remembered  by  sight  came  for¬ 
ward  with  a  glass  and  mug  in  his  hands  towards  a 
friend  leaning  against  the  wall ;  but,  seeing  her,  very 
gallantly  offered  her  a  drink  of  the  liquor,  which  was 
gin-and-beer  hot,  pouring  her  out  a  tumblerful  and 
saying,  in  a  moment  or  two:  “ Surely,  ’tis  little  Car’¬ 
line  Aspent  that  was — down  at  Stickleford  ?” 

She  assented,  and,  though  she  did  not  exactly  want 
this  beverage,  she  drank  it  since  it  was  offered,  and 
her  entertainer  begged  her  to  come  in  farther  and  sit 
down.  Once  within  the  room  she  found  that  all  the 
persons  present  were  seated  close  against  the  walls, 
and  there  being  a  chair  vacant  she  did  the  same.  An 
explanation  of  their  position  occurred  the  next  mo¬ 
ment.  In  the  opposite  corner  stood  Mop,  rosining  his 
bow  and  looking  just  the  same  as  ever.  The  company 
had  cleared  the  middle  of  the  room  for  dancing,  and 
they  were  about  to  dance  again.  As  she  wore  a  veil 
to  keep  off  the  wind  she  did  not  think  he  had  recog¬ 
nized  her,  or  could  possibly  guess  the  identity  of  the 
child ;  and  to  her  satisfied  surprise  she  found  that  she 
could  confront  him  quite  calmly — mistress  of  herself 
in  the  dignity  her  London  life  had  given  her.  Before 


168 


life’s  little  ironies 


she  had  quite  emptied  her  glass  the  dance  was  called, 
the  dancers  formed  in  two  lines,  the  music  sounded, 
and  the  figure  began. 

Then  matters  changed  for  Car’line.  A  tremor  quick¬ 
ened  itself  to  life  in  her,  and  her  hand  so  shook  that 
she  could  hardly  set  down  her  glass.  It  was  not  the 
dance  nor  the  dancers,  but  the  notes  of  that  old  violin 
which  thrilled  the  London  wife,  these  having  still  all 
the  witchery  that  she  had  so  well  known  of  yore,  and 
under  which  she  had  used  to  lose  her  power  of  inde¬ 
pendent  will.  How  it  all  came  back !  There  was  the 
fiddling  figure  against  the  wTall;  the  large,  oily,  mop¬ 
like  head  of  him,  and  beneath  the  mop  the  face  with 
closed  eyes. 

After  the  first  moments  of  paralyzed  reverie  the  fa¬ 
miliar  tune  in  the  familiar  rendering  made  her  laugh 
and  shed  tears  simultaneously.  Then  a  man  at  the 
bottom  of  the  dance,  whose  partner  had  dropped  away, 
stretched  out  his  hand  and  beckoned  to  her  to  take  the 
place.  She  did  not  want  to  dance ;  she  entreated  by 
signs  to  be  left  where  she  was,  but  she  was  entreating 
of  the  tune  and  its  player  rather  than  of  the  dancing 
man.  The  saltatory  tendency  which  the  fiddler  and 
his  cunning  instrument  had  ever  been  able  to  start  in 
her  was  seizing  Car’line  just  as  it  had  done  in  earlier 
years,  possibly  assisted  by  the  gin-and-beer  hot.  Tired 
as  she  was  she  grasped  her  little  girl  by  the  hand,  and, 
plunging  in  at  the  bottom  of  the  figure,  whirled  about 
with  the  rest.  She  found  that  her  companions  were 
mostly  people  of  the  neighboring  hamlets  and  farms 
— Bloom’s  End,  Mellstock,  Lewgate,  and  elsewhere  ; 
and  by  degrees  she  was  recognized  as  she  convulsive¬ 
ly  danced  on,  wishing  that  Mop  would  cease  and  let 
her  heart  rest  from  the  aching  he  caused,  and  her  feet 
also. 

After  long  and  many  minutes  the  dance  ended,  when 


THE  FIDDLER  OF  THE  REELS 


m 


she  was  urged  to  fortify  herself  with  more  gin-and- 
beer ;  which  she  did,  feeling  very  weak  and  overpow¬ 
ered  with  hysteric  emotion.  She  refrained  from  un¬ 
veiling,  to  keep  Mop  in  ignorance  of  her  presence,  if 
possible.  Several  of  the  guests  having  left,  Car’line 
hastily  wiped  her  lips  and  also  turned  to  go ;  but,  ac¬ 
cording  to  the  account  of  some  who  remained,  at  that 
very  moment  a  five-handed  reel  was  proposed,  in  which 
two  or  three  begged  her  to  join. 

She  declined  on  the  plea  of  being  tired  and  having 
to  walk  to  Stickleford,  when  Mop  began  aggressively 
tweedling  “My  Fancy  Lad,”  in  I)  major,  as  the  air  to 
which  the  reel  was  to  be  footed.  He  must  have  rec¬ 
ognized  her,  though  she  did  not  know  it,  for  it  was 
the  strain  of  all  seductive  strains  which  she  was  least 
able  to  resist — the  one  he  had  played  when  she  was 
leaning  over  the  bridge  at  the  date  of  their  first  ac¬ 
quaintance.  Car’line  stepped  despairingly  into  the 
middle  of  the  room  with  the  other  four. 

Reels  were  resorted  to  hereabouts  at  this  time  by 
the  more  robust  spirits  for  the  reduction  of  superflu¬ 
ous  energy  which  the  ordinary  figure-dances  were  not 
powerful  enough  to  exhaust.  As  everybody  knows,  or 
does  not  know,  the  five  reelers  stood  in  the  form  of  a 
cross,  the  reel  being  performed  by  each  line  of  three 
alternately,  the  persons  who  successively  came  to  the 
middle  place  dancing  in  both  directions.  Car’line  soon 
found  herself  in  this  place,  the  axis  of  the  whole  per¬ 
formance,  and  could  not  get  out  of  it,  the  tune  turn¬ 
ing  into  the  first  part  without  giving  her  opportunity. 
And  now  she  began  to  suspect  that  Mop  did  know  her, 
and  was  doing  this  on  purpose,  though  whenever  she 
stole  a  glance  at  him  his  closed  eyes  betokened  obliv¬ 
iousness  to  everything  outside  his  own  brain.  She 
continued  to  wend  her  way  through  the  figure  of  eight 
that  was  formed  by  her  course,  the  fiddler  introduc- 


170 


life’s  little  ieonies 


ing  into  his  notes  the  wild  and  agonizing  sweetness  of 
a  living  voice  in  one  too  highly  wrought ;  its  pathos 
running  high  and  running  low  in  endless  variation, 
projecting  through  her  nerves  excruciating  spasms — a 
sort  of  blissful  torture.  The  room  swam,  the  tune  was 
endless ;  and  in  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  only 
other  woman  in  the  figure  dropped  out  exhausted,  and 
sank  panting  on  a  bench. 

The  reel  instantly  resolved  itself  into  a  four-hand¬ 
ed  one.  Car’line  would  have  given  anything  to  leave 
off;  but  she  had,  or  fancied  she  had,  no  power,  while 
Mop  played  such  tunes ;  and  thus  another  ten  minutes 
slipped  by,  a  haze  of  dust  now  clouding  the  candles, 
the  floor  being  of  stone,  sanded.  Then  another  dancer 
fell  out — one  of  the  men — and  went  into  the  passage,  in 
a  frantic  search  for  liquor.  To  turn  the  figure  into  a 
three-handed  reel  was  the  work  of  a  second,  Mop  mod¬ 
ulating  at  the  same  time  into  u  The  Fairy  Dance,”  as 
better  suited  to  the  contracted  movement,  and  no  less 
one  of  those  foods  of  love  which,  as  manufactured  by 
his  bow,  had  always  intoxicated  her. 

In  a  reel  for  three  there  was  no  rest  whatever,  and 
four  or  five  minutes  were  enough  to  make  her  remain¬ 
ing  two  partners,  now  thoroughly  blown,  stamp  their 
last  bar,  and,  like  their  predecessors,  limp  off  into  the 
next  room  to  get  something  to  drink.  Car’line,  half- 
stifled  inside  her  veil,  was  left  dancing  alone,  the  apart¬ 
ment  now  being  empty  of  everybody  save  herself, Mop, 
and  their  little  girl. 

She  flung  up  the  veil,  and  cast  her  eyes  upon  him, 
as  if  imploring  him  to  withdraw  himself  and  his  acous¬ 
tic  magnetism  from  the  atmosphere.  Mop  opened  one 
of  his  own  orbs,  as  though  for  the  first  time,  fixed 
it  peeriugly  upon  her,  and  smiling  dreamily,  threw 
into  his  strains  the  reserve  of  expression  which  he 
could  not  afford  to  waste  on  a  big  and  noisy  dance. 


THE  FIDDLER  OF  THE  REELS 


171 


Crowds  of  little  chromatic  subtleties,  capable  of  draw¬ 
ing  tears  from  a  statue,  proceeded  straightway  from 
the  ancient  fiddle,  as  if  it  were  dying  of  the  emotion 
which  had  been  pent  up  within  it  ever  since  its  ban¬ 
ishment  from  some  Italian  city  where  it  first  took 
shape  and  sound.  There  was  that  in  the  look  of 
Mop’s  one  dark  eye  which  said  :  “  You  cannot  leave 
off,  dear,  whether  you  would  or  no,”  and  it  bred  in 
her  a  paroxysm  of  desperation  that  defied  him  to  tire 
her  down. 

She  thus  continued  to  dance  alone,  defiantly  as  she 
thought,  but  in  truth  slavishly  and  abjectly,  subject  to 
every  wave  of  the  melody,  and  probed  by  the  gimlet¬ 
like  gaze  of  her  fascinator’s  open  eye  ;  keeping  up  at 
the  same  time  a  feeble  smile  in  his  face,  as  a  feint  to 
signify  it  was  still  her  own  pleasure  which  led  her  on. 
A  terrified  embarrassment  as  to  what  she  could  say 
to  him  if  she  were  to  leave  off,  had  its  unrecognized 
share  in  keeping  her  going.  The  child,  who  was  be¬ 
ginning  to  be  distressed  by  the  strange  situation,  came 
up  and  said  :  “  Stop,  mother,  stop,  and  let’s  go  home !” 
as  she  seized  Car’line’s  hand. 

Suddenly  Car’line  sank  staggering  to  the  floor;  and 
rolling  over  on  her  face,  prone  she  remained.  Mop’s 
fiddle  thereupon  emitted  an  elfin  shriek  of  finality ; 
stepping  quickly  down  from  the  nine-gallon  beer-cask 
which  had  formed  his  rostrum,  he  went  to  the  little 
girl,  who  disconsolately  bent  over  her  mother. 

The  guests  who  had  gone  into  the  backroom  for 
liquor  and  change  of  air,  hearing  something  unusual, 
trooped  back  hitherward,  where  they  endeavored  to 
revive  poor,  weak  Car’line  by  blowing  her  with  the 
bellows  and  opening  the  window.  Ned,  her  husband, 
who  had  been  detained  in  Casterbridge,  as  aforesaid, 
came  along  the  road  at  this  juncture,  and  hearing  ex¬ 
cited  voices  through  the  open  window,  and,  to  his  great 


172 


life’s  little  ironies 


surprise,  the  mention  of  his  wife’s  name,  he  entered 
amid  the  rest  upon  the  scene.  Car’line  was  now  in 
convulsions,  weeping  violently,  and  for  a  long  time 
nothing  could  be  done  with  her.  While  he  was  send¬ 
ing  for  a  cart  to  take  her  onward  to  Stickleford,  Hip- 
croft  anxiously  inquired  how  it  had  all  happened  ; 
and  then  the  assembly  explained  that  a  fiddler  former¬ 
ly  known  in  the  locality  bad  lately  revisited  his  old 
haunts,  and  had  taken  upon  himself  without  invitation 
to  play  that  evening  at  the  inn. 

Ned  demanded  the  fiddler’s  name,  and  they  said 
Ollamoor. 

“  Ah !”  exclaimed  Ned,  looking  round  him.  “  Where 
is  he,  and  where — where’s  my  little  girl  ?” 

Ollamoor  had  disappeared,  and  so  had  the  child. 
Hipcroft  was  in  ordinary  a  quiet  and  tractable  fellow, 
but  a  determination  which  was  to  be  feared  settled  in 
his  face  now.  “  Blast  him  !”  he  cried.  u  I’ll  beat  his 
skull  in  for’n,  if  I  swing  for  it  to-morrow  !” 

He  had  rushed  to  the  poker  which  lay  on  the  hearth, 
and  hastened  down  the  passage,  the  people  following. 
Outside  the  house,  on  the  other  side  of  the  highway,  a 
mass  of  dark  heath-land  rose  sullenly  upward  to  its 
not  easily  accessible  interior,  a  ravined  plateau,  where¬ 
on  jutted  into  the  sky,  at  the  distance  of  a  couple  of 
miles,  the  fir-woods  of  Mistover  backed  by  the  Yal- 
bury  coppices — a  place  of  Dantesque  gloom  at  this 
hour,  which  would  have  afforded  secure  hiding  for  a 
battery  of  artillery,  much  less  a  man  and  a  child. 

Some  other  men  plunged  thitherward  with  him,  and 
more  went  along  the  road.  They  were  gone  about 
twenty  minutes  altogether,  returning  without  result 
to  the  inn.  Ned  sat  down  in  the  settle,  and  clasped 
his  forehead  with  his  hands. 

“Well — what  a  fool  the  man  is,  and  hev  been  all 
these  years,  if  he  thinks  the  child  his,  as  a’  do  seem 


THE  FIDDLER  OF  THE  REELS 


173 


to  !”  they  whispered.  “And  everybody  else  knowing 
otherwise  !” 

“Into,  I  don’t  think  ’tis  mine  !”  cried  Ned,  hoarsely, 
as  "he  looked  up  from  his  hands.  “But  she  is  mine, 
all  the  same  !  Ha’n’t  I  nussed  her?  Ha’n’t  I  fed  her 
and  teached  her?  Ha’n’t  I  played  wi’  her?  Oh,  lit¬ 
tle  Carry — gone  with  that  rogue — gone  !” 

“You  ha’n’t  lost  your  mis’ess,  anyhow,”  they  said 
to  console  him.  “  She’s  throwed  up  the  sperrits,  and 
she  is  feeling  better,  and  she’s  more  to  ’ee  than  a  child 
that  isn’t  yours.” 

“She  isn’t!  She’s  not  so  particular  much  to  me, 
especially  now  she’s  lost  the  little  maid !  But  Carry’s 
everything  !” 

“  Well,  ver’  like  you’ll  find  her  to-morrow.” 

“Ah — but  shall  I?  Yet  he  can't  hurt  her — surely 
he  can’t!  Well — how’s  Car’line  now?  I  am  ready. 
Is  the  cart  here  ?” 

She  was  lifted  into  the  vehicle,  and  they  sadly  lum¬ 
bered  on  towards  Stickleford.  Next  day  she  was 
calmer  ;  but  the  fits  were  still  upon  her  ;  and  her  will 
seemed  shattered.  For  the  child  she  appeared  to  show 
singularly  little  anxiety,  though  Ned  was  nearly  dis¬ 
tracted.  It  was  nevertheless  quite  expected  that  the 
impish  Mop  would  restore  the  lost  one  after  a  freak 
of  a  day  or  two  ;  but  time  went  on,  and  neither  he 
nor  she  could  be  heard  of,  and  Hipcroft  murmured 
that  perhaps  he  was  exercising  upon  her  some  unholy 
musical  charm,  as  he  had  done  upon  Car’line  herself. 
Weeks  passed,  and  still  they  could  obtain  no  clew 
either  to  the  fiddler’s  whereabouts  or  the  girl’s  ;  and 
how  he  could  have  induced  her  to  go  with  him  re¬ 
mained  a  mystery. 

Then  Ned,  who  had  obtained  only  temporary  em¬ 
ployment  in  the  neighborhood,  took  a  sudden  hatred 
towards  his  native  district,  and  a  rumor  reaching  his 


174 


life’s  little  ironies 


ears  through  the  police  that  a  somewhat  similar  man 
and  child  had  been  seen  at  a  fair  near  London,  he 
playing  a  violin,  she  dancing  on  stilts,  a  new  interest 
in  the  capital  took  possession  of  Hipcroft  with  an  in¬ 
tensity  which  would  scarcely  allow  him  time  to  pack 
before  returning  thither.  He  did  not,  however,  find 
the  lost  one,  though  he  made  it  the  entire  business  of 
his  over-hours  to  stand  about  in  by-streets  in  the  hope 
of  discovering  her,  and  would  start  up  in  the  night, 
saying,  “  That  rascal’s  torturing  her  to  maintain  him!” 
To  which  his  wife  would  answer,  peevishly,  “  Don’t  ’ee 
raft  yourself  so,  Ned  !  You  prevent  my  getting  a  bit 
o’  rest !  He  won’t  hurt  her  !”  and  fall  asleep  again. 

That  Carry  and  her  father  had  emigrated  to  America 
was  the  general  opinion;  Mop,  no  doubt,  finding  the 
girl  a  highly  desirable  companion  when  lie  had  trained 
her  to  keep  him  by  her  earnings  as  a  dancer.  There, 
for  that  matter,  they  may  be  performing  in  some 
capacity  now,  though  he  must  be  an  old  scamp  verg¬ 
ing  on  threescore-and-ten,  and  she  a  woman  of  four- 
and-forty. 

May,  1893. 


A  TKADITION  OF  1804 


The  widely  discussed  possibility  of  an  invasion  of 
England  through  a  Channel  tunnel  has  more  than 
once  recalled  old  Solomon  Selby’s  story  to  my  mind. 

The  occasion  on  which  I  numbered  myself  among 
his  audience  was  one  evening  when  he  was  sitting 
in  the  yawning  chimney-corner  of  the  inn-kitchen, 
with  some  others  who  had  gathered  there,  awaiting 
the  cessation  of  the  rain.  Withdrawing  the  stem  of 
his  pipe  from  the  dental  notch  in  which  it  habitually 
rested,  he  leaned  back  in  the  recess  behind  him  and 
smiled  into  the  fire.  The  smile  was  neither  mirth¬ 
ful  nor  sad,  not  precisely  humorous  nor  altogether 
thoughtful.  We  who  knew  him  recognized  it  in  a 
moment :  it  was  his  narrative  smile.  Breaking  off 
our  few  desultory  remarks,  we  drew  up  closer,  and  he 
thus  began  : 

“  My  father,  as  you  mid  know,  was  a  shepherd  all 
his  life,  and  lived  out  by  the  Cove,  four  miles  yon¬ 
der,  where  I  was  born  and  lived  likewise,  till  I  moved 
here  shortly  afore  I  wer  married.  The  cottage  that 
first  knew  me  stood  on  the  top  of  the  down,  near  the 
sea  ;  there  was  no  house  within  a  mile  and  a  half  of 
it  ;  it  was  built  o’  purpose  for  the  farm-shepherd,  and 
had  no  other  use.  They  tell  me  that  it  is  now  pulled 
down,  but  that  you  can  see  where  it  stood  by  the 
mounds  of  earth  and  a  few  broken  bricks  that  are 


176 


life’s  little  ieonies 


still  lying  about.  It  was  a  bleak  and  dreary  place 
in  winter-time,  but  in  summer  it  was  well  enough, 
though  the  garden  never  came  to  much,  because  we 
could  not  get  up  a  good  shelter  for  the  vegetables 
and  currant  bushes,  and  where  there  is  much  wind 
they  don’t  thrive. 

“  Of  all  them  years  of  my  growing  up  the  ones  that 
bide  clearest  in  my  mind  were  eighteen  hundred  and 
three,  four,  and  five.  This  was  for  two  reasons  :  I 
had  just  then  grown  to  an  age  when  a  child’s  eyes 
and  ears  take  in  and  note  down  everything  about  him, 
and  there  was  more  at  that  date  to  bear  in  mind  than 
there  ever  has  been  since  with  me.  It  was,  as  I  need 
hardly  tell  ye,  the  time  after  the  first  peace,  when 
Bonaparte  was  scheming  his  descent  upon  England. 
He  had  crossed  the  great  Alp  mountains,  fought  in 
Egypt,  drubbed  the  Turks,  the  Austrians,  and  the 
Proossians,  and  now  thought  he’d  have  a  slap  at  us. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  Channel,  scarce  out  of  sight 
and  hail  of  a  man  standing  on  our  English  shore,  the 
French  army  of  a  hundred  and  sixty  thousand  men 
and  fifteen  thousand  horses  had  been  brought  to¬ 
gether  from  all  parts,  and  were  drilling  every  day. 
Bonaparte  had  been  three  years  a-making  his  prepa¬ 
rations  ;  and  to  ferry  these  soldiers  and  cannon  and 
horses  across  he  had  contrived  a  couple  of  thousand 
flat-bottomed  boats.  These  boats  were  small  things, 
but  wonderfully  built.  A  good  few  of  ’em  were  so 
made  as  to  have  a  little  stable  on  board  each  for  the 
two  horses  that  were  to  haul  the  cannon  carried  at 
the  stern.  To  get  in  order  all  these,  and  other  things 
required,  he  had  assembled  there  five  or  six  thousand 
fellows  that  worked  at  trades— carpenters,  black¬ 
smiths,  wheelwrights,  saddlers,  and  what  not.  Oh, 
’twas  a  curious  time  ! 

“  Every  morning  neighbor  Boney  would  muster  his 


A  TRADITION  OP  1804  iff 

multitude  of  soldiers  on  the  beach,  draw  ’em  up  in 
line,  practise  ’em  in  the  manoeuvre  of  embarking, 
horses  and  all,  till  they  could  do  it  without  a  single 
hitch.  My  father  drove  a  flock  of  ewes  up  into  Sus¬ 
sex  that  year,  and  as  he  went  along  the  drover’s 
track  over  the  high  downs  thereabout  he  could  see 
this  drilling  actually  going  on — the  accoutrements  of 
the  rank  and  file  glittering  in  the  sun  like  silver.  It 
was  thought  and  always  said  by  my  uncle  Job,  ser¬ 
geant  of  foot  (who  used  to  know  all  about  these  mat¬ 
ters),  that  Bonaparte  meant  to  cross  with  oars  on  a 
calm  night.  The  grand  query  with  us  was,  Where 
would  my  gentleman  land  ?  Many  of  the  common 
people  thought  it  would  be  at  Dover  ;  others,  who 
knew  how  unlikely  it  was  that  any  skilful  general 
would  make  a  business  of  landing  just  where  he  was 
expected,  said  he’d  go  either  east  into  the  river 
Thames,  or  west’ard  to  some  convenient  place,  most 
likely  one  of  the  little  bays  inside  the  Isle  of  Port¬ 
land,  between  the  Beal  and  St.  Alban’s  Head  —  and 
for  choice  the  three -quarter -round  Cove,  screened 
from  every  mortal  eye,  that  seemed  made  o’  purpose, 
out  by  where  we  lived,  and  which  I’ve  dimmed  up 
with  two  tubs  of  brandy  across  my  shoulders  on 
scores  o’  dark  nights  in  my  younger  days.  Some  had 
heard  that  a  part  o’  the  French  fleet  would  sail  right 
round  Scotland,  and  come  up  the  Channel  to  a  suita¬ 
ble  haven.  However,  there  wTas  much  doubt  upon 
the  matter  ;  and  no  wonder,  for  after-years  proved 
that  Bonaparte  himself  could  hardly  make  up  his 
mind  upon  that  great  and  very  particular  point — 
where  to  land.  His  uncertainty  came  about  in  this 
wise  :  that  he  could  get  no  news  as  to  where  and  how 
our  troops  lay  in  waiting,  and  that  his  knowledge  of 
possible  places  where  flat-bottomed  boats  might  be 
quietly  run  ashore,  and  the  men  they  brought  mar- 
12 


178  life’s  little  ieonies 

shaded  in  order,  was  dim  to  the  last  degree.  Being 
flat-bottomed,  they  didn’t  require  a  harbor  for  un¬ 
shipping  their  cargo  of  men,  but  a  good  shelving 
beach  away  from  sight,  and  with  a  fair  open  road 
towards  London.  How  the  question  posed  that  great 
Corsican  tyrant  (as  we  used  to  call  him),  what  pains 
he  took  to  settle  it,  and,  above  all,  what  a  risk  he  ran 
on  one  particular  night  in  trying  to  do  so,  were  known 
only  to  one  man  here  and  there  ;  and  certainly  to  no 
maker  of  newspapers  or  printer  of  books,  or  my  ac¬ 
count  o’t  would  not  have  had  so  many  heads  shaken 
over  it  as  it  has  by  gentry  who  only  believe  what 
they  see  in  printed  lines. 

“  The  flocks  my  father  had  charge  of  fed  all  about 
the  downs  near  our  house,  overlooking  the  sea  and 
shore  each  way  for  miles.  In  winter  and  early  spring 
father  was  up  a  deal  at  nights,  watching  and  tending 
the  lambing.  Often  he’d  go  to  bed  early,  and  turn 
out  at  twelve  or  one  ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  he’d 
sometimes  stay  up  till  twelve  or  one,  and  then  turn 
in  to  bed.  As  soon  as  I  was  old  enough  I  used  to 
help  him,  mostly  in  the  way  of  keeping  an  eye  upon 
the  ewes  while  he  was  gone  home  to  rest.  This  is 
what  I  was  doing  in  a  particular  month  in  either  the 
year  four  or  five — I  can’t  certainly  fix  which,  but  it 
was  long  before  I  was  took  away  from  the  sheep¬ 
keeping  to  be  bound  prentice  to  a  trade.  Every 
night  at  that  time  I  was  at  the  fold,  about  half  a 
mile,  or  it  may  be  a  little  more,  from  our  cottage, 
and  no  living  thing  at  all  with  me  but  the  ewes  and 
young  lambs.  Afeard  ?  No  ;  I  was  never  afeard  of 
being  alone  at  these  times  ;  for  I  had  been  reared  in 
such  an  out-step  place  that  the  lack  o’  human  beings 
at  night  made  me  less  fearful  than  the  sight  of  ’em. 
Directly  I  saw  a  man’s  shape  after  dark  in  a  lonely 
place  I  was  frightened  out  of  my  senses. 


A  TRADITION  OF  1804 


179 


“  One  day  in  that  month  we  were  surprised  by  a 
visit  from  my  uncle  Job,  the  sergeant  in  the  Sixty- 
first  foot,  then  in  camp  on  the  downs  above  King 
George’s  watering  -  place,  several  miles  to  the  west 
yonder.  Uncle  Job  dropped  in  about  dusk,  and  went 
up  with  my  father  to  the  fold  for  an  hour  or  two. 
Then  he  came  home,  had  a  drop  to  drink  from  the  tub 
of  sperrits  that  the  smugglers  kept  us  in  for  housing 
their  liquor  when  they’d  made  a  run,  and  for  burning 
’em  off  when  there  was  danger.  After  that  he  stretched 
himself  out  on  the  settle  to  sleep.  I  went  to  bed : 
at  one  o’clock  father  came  home,  and  waking  me  to  go 
and  take  his  place,  according  to  custom,  went  to  bed 
himself.  On  my  way  out  of  the  house  I  passed  Uncle 
Job  on  the  settle.  He  opened  his  eyes,  and  upon  my 
telling  him  where  I  was  going  he  said  it  was  a  shame 
that  such  a  youngster  as  I  should  go  up  there  all  alone; 
and  when  he  had  fastened  up  his  stock  and  waist-belt 
he  set  off  along  with  me,  taking  a  drop  from  the  sper- 
rit-tub  in  a  little  flat  bottle  that  stood  in  the  corner 
cupboard. 

“  By-and-by  we  drew  up  to  the  fold,  saw  that  all  was 
right,  and  then,  to  keep  ourselves  warm,  curled  up  in 
a  heap  of  straw  that  lay  inside  the  thatched  hurdles 
we  had  set  up  to  break  the  stroke  of  the  wind  when 
there  was  any.  To-night,  however,  there  was  none.  It 
was  one  of  those  very  still  nights  when,  if  you  stand 
on  the  high  hills  anywhere  within  two  or  three  miles 
of  the  sea,  you  can  hear  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  tide 
along  the  shore,  coming  and  going  every  few  moments 
like  a  sort  of  great  snore  of  the  sleeping  world.  Over 
the  lower  ground  there  was  a  bit  of  a  mist,  but  on 
the  hill  where  we  lay  the  air  was  clear,  and  the  moon, 
then  in  her  last  quarter,  flung  a  fairly  good  light  on 
the  grass  and  scattered  straw. 

“  While  we  lay  there  Uncle  Job  amused  me  by  tell* 


180 


life’s  little  ironies 


ing  me  strange  stories  of  the  wars  he  had  served  in 
and  the  wounds  he  had  got.  He  had  already  fought 
the  French  in  the  Low  Countries,  and  hoped  to  fight 
’em  again.  His  stories  lasted  so  long  that  at  last  I  was 
hardly  sure  that  I  was  not  a  soldier  myself,  and  had 
seen  such  service  as  he  told  of.  The  wonders  of  his 
tales  quite  bewildered  my  mind,  till  I  fell  asleep  and 
dreamed  of  battle,  smoke,  and  dying  soldiers,  all  of 
a  kind  with  the  doings  he  had  been  bringing  up  to 
me. 

“  How  long  my  nap  lasted  I  am  not  prepared  to 
say.  But  some  faint  sounds  over  and  above  the  rustle 
of  the  ewes  in  the  straw,  the  bleat  of  the  lambs,  and 
the  tinkle  of  the  sheep-bell  brought  me  to  my  waking 
senses.  Uncle  Job  was  still  beside  me;  but  he  too 
had  fallen  asleep.  I  looked  out  from  the  straw,  and 
saw  what  it  was  that  had  aroused  me.  Two  men,  in 
boat  cloaks,  cocked  hats,  and  swords,  stood  by  the 
hurdles  about  twenty  yards  off. 

“  I  turned  my  ear  thitherward  to  catch  what  they 
were  saying,  but  though  I  heard  every  word  o’t,  not 
one  did  I  understand.  They  spoke  in  a  tongue  that 
was  not  ours  —  in  French,  as  I  afterwards  found. 
But  if  I  could  not  gain  the  meaning  of  a  word,  I  was 
shrewd  boy  enough  to  find  out  a  deal  of  the  talkers’ 
business.  By  the  light  o’  the  moon  I  could  see  that 
one  of  ’em  carried  a  roll  of  paper  in  his  hand,  while 
every  moment  he  spoke  quick  to  his  comrade,  and 
pointed  right  and  left  with  the  other  hand  to  spots 
along  the  shore.  There  was  no  doubt  that  he  was  ex¬ 
plaining  to  the  second  gentleman  the  shapes  and  feat¬ 
ures  of  the  coast.  What  happened  soon  after  made 
this  still  clearer  to  me. 

“  All  this  time  I  had  not  waked  Uncle  Job,  but  now 
I  began  to  be  afeard  that  they  might  light  upon  us, 
because  uncle  breathed  so  heavily  through ’s  nose.  I 


A  TRADITION  OF  1804 


181 


put  my  mouth  to  his  ear  and  whispered,  ‘Uncle 
Job.’ 

“  ‘  What  is  it,  my  boy?’  he  said,  just  as  if  he  hadn’t 
been  asleep  at  all. 

“  ‘  Hush  !’  says  I.  *  Two  French  generals — ’ 

“  ‘  French  ?’  says  he. 

“  ‘  Yes,’  says  I.  ‘  Come  to  see  where  to  land  their 
army  !’ 

“  I  pointed  ’em  out ;  but  I  could  say  no  more,  for 
the  pair  were  coming  at  that  moment  much  nearer  to 
where  we  lay.  As  soon  as  they  got  as  near  as  eight 
or  ten  yards,  the  officer  with  a  roll  in  his  hand  stooped 
down  to  a  slanting  hurdle,  unfastened  his  roll  upon  it, 
and  spread  it  out.  Then  suddenly  he  sprung  a  dark- 
lantern  open  on  the  paper,  and  showed  it  to  be  a 
map. 

“ ‘  What  be  they  looking  at?’  I  whispered  to  Uncle 
Job. 

“  ‘  A  chart  of  the  Channel,’  says  the  sergeant  (know¬ 
ing  about  such  things). 

“  The  other  French  officer  now  stooped  likewise, 
and  over  the  map  they  had  a  long  consultation,  as 
they  pointed  here  and  there  on  the  paper,  and  then 
hither  and  thither  at  places  along  the  shore  beneath 
us.  I  noticed  that  the  manner  of  one  officer  was  very 
respectful  towards  the  other,  who  seemed  much  his 
superior,  the  second  in  rank  calling  him  by  a  sort 
of  title  that  I  did  not  know  the  sense  of.  The  head 
one,  on  the  other  hand,  was  quite  familiar  with  his 
friend,  and  more  than  once  clapped  him  on  the  shoul¬ 
der. 

“Uncle  Job  had  watched  as  well  as  I,  but  though 
the  map  had  been  in  the  lantern-light,  their  faces  had 
always  been  in  shade.  But  when  they  rose  from 
stooping  over  the  chart,  the  light  flashed  upward,  and 
fell  smart  upon  one  of  'era’s  features.  No  sooner  had 


182 


life’s  little  ironies 


this  happened  than  Uncle  Job  gasped,  and  sank  down 
as  if  he’d  been  in  a  fit. 

“  *  What  is  it — what  is  it,  Uncle  Job  ?’  said  I. 

44  4  O  good  God  !’  says  he,  under  the  straw. 

44  4  What  ?’  says  I. 

“ 4  Boney  !’  he  groaned  out. 

44  4  Who  ?’  says  I. 

44 4  Bonaparty,’  he  said.  4  The  Corsican  ogre.  O 
that  I  had  got  but  my  new-flinted  firelock,  that  there 
man  should  die !  But  I  haven’t  got  my  new-flinted 
firelock,  and  that  there  man  must  live.  So  lie  low,  as 
you  value  your  life !’ 

44 1  did  lie  low,  as  you  mid  suppose.  But  I  couldn’t 
help  peeping.  And  then  I  too,  lad  as  I  was,  knew  that 
it  was  the  face  of  Bonaparte.  Not  know  Boney?  I 
should  think  I  did  know  Boney.  I  should  have  known 
him  by  half  the  light  o’  that  lantern.  If  I  had  seen  a 
picture  of  his  features  once,  I  had  seen  it  a  hundred 
times.  There  was  his  bullet  head,  his  short  neck,  his 
round  yaller  cheeks  and  chin,  his  gloomy  face,  and  his 
great,  glowing  eyes.  He  took  off  his  hat  to  blow  him¬ 
self  a  bit,  and  there  was  the  forelock  in  the  middle 
of  his  forehead,  as  in  all  the  draughts  of  him.  In 
moving,  his  cloak  fell  a  little  open,  and  I  could  see 
for  a  moment  his  white-fronted  jacket  and  one  of  his 
epaulets. 

44  But  none  of  this  lasted  long.  In  a  minute  he  and 
his  general  had  rolled  up  the  map,  shut  the  lantern, 
and  turned  to  go  down  towards  the  shore. 

44 Then  Uncle  Job  came  to  himself  a  bit.  ‘Slipped 
across  in  the  night-time  to  see  how  to  put  his  men 
ashore,’  he  said.  ‘The  like  o’  that  man’s  coolness 
eyes  will  never  again  see  !  Nephew,  I  must  act  in 
this,  and  immediate,  or  England’s  lost !’ 

44  When  they  were  over  the  brow,  we  crope  out, 
and  went  some  little  way  to  look  after  them.  Half- 


A  TRADITION  OF  1804 


138 


way  down  they  were  joined  by  two  others,  and  six  or 
seven  minutes  brought  them  to  the  shore.  Then, 
from  behind  a  rock,  a  boat  came  out  into  the  weak 
moonlight  of  the  Cove,  and  they  jumped  in  ;  it  put 
off  instantly,  and  vanished  in  a  few  minutes  between 
the  two  rocks  that  stand  at  the  mouth  of  the  Cove  as 
we  all  know.  We  dimmed  back  to  where  we  had 
been  before,  and  I  could  see,  a  little  way  out,  a  larger 
vessel,  though  still  not  very  large.  The  little  boat 
drew  up  alongside,  was  made  fast  at  the  stern  as  I 
suppose,  for  the  largest  sailed  away,  and  we  saw  no 
more. 

“My  uncle  Job  told  his  officers  as  soon  as  he  got 
back  to  camp ;  but  what  they  thought  of  it  I  never 
heard — neither  did  he.  Boney’s  army  never  came,  and 
a  good  job  for  me  ;  for  the  Cove  below  my  father’s 
house  was  where  he  meant  to  land,  as  this  secret  visit 
showed.  We  coast-folk  should  have  been  cut  down 
one  and  all,  and  I  should  not  have  sat  here  to  tell  this 
tale.” 

We  who  listened  to  old  Selby  that  night  have  been 
familiar  with  his  simple  gravestone  for  these  ten  years 
past.  Thanks  to  the  incredulity  of  the  age,  his  tale 
has  been  seldom  repeated.  But  if  anything  short  of 
the  direct  testimony  of  his  own  eyes  could  persuade 
an  auditor  that  Bonaparte  had  examined  these  shores 
for  himself  with  a  view  to  a  practicable  landing-place, 
it  would  have  been  Solomon  Selby’s  manner  of  nar- 
rating  the  adventure  which  befell  him  on  the  down. 


Christmas,  1882. 


A  FEW  CRUSTED  CHARACTERS 


A  FEW  CRUSTED  CHARACTERS 


It  is  a  Saturday  afternoon  of  blue-and-yellow  au¬ 
tumn-time,  and  the  scene  is  the  high  street  of  a  well- 
known  market-town.  A  large  carrier’s  van  stands  in 
the  quadrangular  fore-court  of  the  White  Hart  Inn, 
upon  the  sides  of  its  spacious  tilt  being  painted,  in 
weather  -  beaten  letters  :  “  Burthen,  Carrier  to  Long- 
puddle.”  These  vans,  so  numerous  hereabout,  are  a 
respectable,  if  somewhat  lumbering,  class  of  convey¬ 
ance,  much  resorted  to  by  decent  travellers  not  over¬ 
stocked  with  money,  the  better  among  them  roughly 
corresponding  to  the  old  French  diligences. 

The  present  one  is  timed  to  leave  the  town  at  four 
in  the  afternoon  precisely,  and  it  is  now  half -past 
three  by  the  clock  in  the  turret  at  the  top  of  the 
street.  In  a  few  seconds  errand-boys  from  the  shops 
begin  to  arrive  with  packages  which  they  fling  into 
the  vehicle,  and  turn  away  whistling,  and  care  for 
the  packages  no  more.  At  twenty  minutes  to  four 
an  elderly  woman  places  her  basket  upon  the  shafts, 
slowly  mounts,  takes  up  a  seat  inside,  and  folds  her 
hands  and  her  lips.  She  has  secured  her  corner  for 
the  journey,  though  there  is  as  yet  no  sign  of  a  horse 
being  put  in,  nor  of  a  carrier.  At  the  three-quarters, 
two  other  women  arrive,  in  whom  the  first  recognizes 
the  postmistress  of  Upper  Longpuddle  and  the  regis¬ 
trar’s  wife,  they  recognizing  her  as  the  aged  groceress 


188 


life’s  little  ironies 


of  the  same  village.  At  five  minutes  to  the  hour 
there  approach  Mr.  Profitt,  the  school-master,  in  a 
soft  felt  hat,  and  Christopher  Twink,  the  master- 
thatcher ;  and  as  the  hour  strikes  there  rapidly  drop 
in  the  parish-clerk  and  his  wife,  the  seedsman  and  his 
aged  father,  the  registrar  ;  also  Mr.  Day,  the  world- 
ignored  local  landscape-painter,  an  elderly  man  who 
resides  in  his  native  place,  and  has  never  sold  a  pict¬ 
ure  outside  it,  though  his  pretensions  to  art  have  been 
nobly  supported  by  his  fellow-villagers,  whose  confi¬ 
dence  in  his  genius  has  been  as  remarkable  as  the 
outer  neglect  of  it,  leading  them  to  buy  his  paintings 
so  extensively  (at  the  price  of  a  few  shillings  each,  it 
is  true)  that  every  dwelling  in  the  parish  exhibits 
three  or  four  of  those  admired  productions  on  its 
walls. 

Burthen,  the  carrier,  is  by  this  time  seen  bustling 
round  the  vehicle  ;  the  horses  are  put  in,  the  propri¬ 
etor  arranges  the  reins  and  springs  up  into  his  seat  as 
if  lie  were  used  to  it — which  he  is. 

“  Is  everybody  here  ?”  he  asks,  preparatorily,  over 
his  shoulder  to  the  passengers  within. 

As  those  who  were  not  there  did  not  reply  in  the 
negative  the  muster  was  assumed  to  be  complete,  and 
after  a  few  hitches  and  hinderances  the  van  with  its 
human  freight  was  got  under  way.  It  jogged  on  at 
an  easy  pace  till  it  reached  the  bridge  which  formed 
the  last  outpost  of  the  town.  The  carrier  pulled  up 
suddenly 

“  Bless  my  soul !”  he  said,  “I’ve  forgot  the  curate  !” 

All  who  could  do  so  gazed  from  the  little  back  win¬ 
dow  of  the  van,  but  the  curate  was  not  in  sight. 

“  Now  I  wonder  where  that  there  man  is  ?”  contin¬ 
ued  the  carrier. 

“  Poor  man,  he  ought  to  have  a  living  at  his  time 
of  life.” 


A  FEW  CRUSTED  CHARACTERS 


189 


“And  he  ought  to  be  punctual/’  said  the  carrier. 
“‘Four  o’clock  sharp  is  my  time  for  starting,’  I  said 
to  ’en.  And  he  said,  ‘I’ll  be  there.’  Now  he’s  not 
here  ;  and  as  a  serious  old  Church  minister  he  ought 
to  be  as  good  as  his  word.  Perhaps  Mr.  Flaxton 
knows,  being  in  the  same  line  of  life  ?”  He  turned  to 
the  parish-clerk. 

“I  was  talking  an  immense  deal  with  him,  that’s 
true,  half  an  hour  ago,”  replied  that  ecclesiastic,  as 
one  of  whom  it  was  no  erroneous  supposition  that  he 
should  be  on  intimate  terms  with  another  of  the  cloth. 
“But  he  didn’t  say  he  would  be  late.” 

The  discussion  was  cut  off  by  the  appearance  round 
the  corner  of  the  van  of  rays  from  the  curate’s  spec¬ 
tacles,  followed  hastily  by  his  face  and  a  few  white 
whiskers,  and  the  swinging  tails  of  his  long  gaunt 
coat.  Nobody  reproached  him,  seeing  how  he  was 
reproaching  himself  ;  and  he  entered  breathlessly  and 
took  his  seat. 

“Now  be  we  all  here?”  said  the  carrier  again. 
They  started  a  second  time,  and  moved  on  till  they 
were  about  three  hundred  yards  out  of  the  town,  and 
had  nearly  reached  the  second  bridge,  behind  which, 
as  every  native  remembers,  the  road  takes  a  turn  and 
travellers  by  this  highway  disappear  finally  from  the 
view  of  gazing  burghers. 

“  Well,  as  I’m  alive  !”  cried  the  postmistress  from 
the  interior  of  the  conveyance,  peering  through  the 
little  square  back  window  along  the  road  townward. 

“  What  ?”  said  the  carrier. 

“A  man  hailing  us  !” 

Another  sudden  stoppage.  “  Somebody  else  ?”  the 
carrier  asked. 

“Aye,  sure  !”  All  waited  silently,  while  those  who 
could  gaze  out  did  so. 

“Now,  who  can  that  be?”  Burthen  continued.  “I 

N 


190 


life’s  little  ironies 


just  put  it  to  ye,  neighbors,  can  any  man  keep  time 
with  such  hinderances  ?  Bain’t  we  full  a’ready  ?  Who 
in  the  world  can  the  man  be?” 

“  He’s  a  sort  of  gentleman,”  said  the  school-master, 
his  position  commanding  the  road  more  comfortably 
than  that  of  his  comrades. 

The  stranger,  who  had  been  holding  up  his  umbrella 
to  attract  their  notice,  was  walking  forward  leisurely 
enough,  now  that  he  found,  by  their  stopping,  that 
it  had  been  secured.  His  clothes  were  decidedly  not 
of  a  local  cut,  though  it  was  difficult  to  point  out 
any  particular  mark  of  difference.  In  his  left  hand  he 
carried  a  small  leather  travelling-bag.  As  soon  as  he 
had  overtaken  the  van  he  glanced  at  the  inscription 
on  its  side,  as  if  to  assure  himself  that  he  had  hailed 
the  right  conveyance,  and  asked  if  they  had  room. 

The  carrier  replied  that  though  they  were  pretty 
well  laden  he  supposed  they  could  carry  one  more, 
whereupon  the  stranger  mounted,  and  took  the  seat 
cleared  for  him  within.  And  then  the  horses  made 
another  move,  this  time  for  good,  and  swung  along 
with  their  burden  of  fourteen  souls  all  told. 

“  You  bain’t  one  of  these  parts,  sir  ?”  said  the  car¬ 
rier.  “  I  could  tell  that  as  far  as  I  could  see  ’ee.” 

“Yes,  I  am  one  of  these  parts,”  said  the  stranger. 
“Oh?  H’m.” 

The  silence  which  followed  seemed  to  imply  a 
doubt  of  the  truth  of  the  new-comer’s  assertion.  “  I 
was  speaking  of  Upper  Longpuddle  more  particular,” 
continued  the  carrier,  hardily,  “  and  I  think  I  know 
most  faces  of  that  valley.” 

“I  was  born  at  Longpuddle,  and  nursed  at  Long- 
puddle,  and  my  father  and  grandfather  before  me,” 
said  the  passenger,  quietly. 

“  Why,  to  be  sure,”  said  the  aged  groceress  in  the 
background,  “it  isn’t  John  Lackland’s  son — never— 


A  FEW  CRUSTED  CHARACTERS 


191 


it  can’t  be — he  who  went  to  foreign  parts  five-and- 
thirty  years  ago  with  his  wife  and  family?  Yet — 
what  do  I  hear  ? — that’s  his  father’s  voice  !” 

“ That’s  the  man,”  replied  the  stranger.  “John 
Lackland  was  my  father,  and  I  am  John  Lackland’s 
son.  Five-and-thirty  years  ago,  when  I  was  a  boy  of 
eleven,  my  parents  emigrated  across  the  seas,  taking 
me  and  my  sister  with  them.  Kytes’s  boy  Tony  was 
the  one  who  drove  us  and  our  belongings  to  Caster- 
bridge  on  the  morning  we  left;  and  his  was  the  last 
Longpuddle  face  I  saw.  We  sailed  the  same  week 
across  the  ocean,  and  there  we’ve  been  ever  since,  and 
there  I’ve  left  those  I  went  with — all  three.” 

“  Alive  or  dead  ?” 

“Dead,”  he  replied  in  a  low  voice.  “And  I  have 
come  back  to  the  old  place,  having  nourished  a  thought 
— not  a  definite  intention,  but  just  a  thought — that  I 
should  like  to  return  here  in  a  year  or  two,  to  spend 
the  remainder  of  my  days.” 

“  Married  man,  Mr.  Lackland  ?” 

“  No.” 

“And  have  the  world  used  ’ee  well,  sir — or  rather 
John,  knowing  ’ee  as  a  child  ?  In  these  rich  new  coun¬ 
tries  that  we  hear  of  so  much,  you’ve  got  rich  with  the 
rest  ?” 

“  I  am  not  very  rich,”  Mr.  Lackland  said.  “  Even 
in  new  countries,  you  know,  there  are  failures.  The 
race  is  not  always  to  the  swift,  nor  the  battle  to  the 
strong;  and  even  if  it  sometimes  is,  you  may  be  nei¬ 
ther  swift  nor  strong.  However,  that’s  enough  about 
me.  Now,  having  answered  your  inquiries,  you  must 
answer  mine;  for,  being  in  London,  I  have  come  down 
here  entirely  to  discover  what  Longpuddle  is  looking 
like,  and  who  are  living  there.  That  was  why  I  pre¬ 
ferred  a  seat  in  your  van  to  hiring  a  carriage  for  driv¬ 
ing  across.” 


192 


life’s  little  ironies 


“  Well,  as  for  Longpuddle,  we  rub  on  there  much  as 
usual.  Old  figures  have  dropped  out  o’  their  frames, 
so  to  speak  it,  and  new  ones  have  been  put  in  their 
places.  You  mentioned  Tony  Kytes  as  having  been 
the  one  to  drive  your  family  and  your  goods  to  Cas- 
terbridge  in  his  father’s  wagon  when  you  left.  Tony 
is,  I  believe,  living  still,  but  not  at  Longpuddle.  He 
went  away  and  settled  at  Lewgate,  near  Mellstock, 
after  his  marriage.  Ah,  Tony  was  a  sort  o’  man  !” 

“  His  character  had  hardly  come  out  when  I  knew 
him.” 

“  No.  But  ’twas  well  enough,  as  far  as  that  goes — 
except  as  to  women.  I  shall  never  forget  his  courting 
— never!” 

The  returned  villager  waited  silently,  and  the  car¬ 
rier  went  on: 


TONY  KYTES,  THE  ARCH-DECEIVER 


“  I  shall  never  forget  Tony’s  face.  ’Twas  a  little, 
round,  firm,  tight  face,  with  a  seam  here  and  there  left 
by  the  small-pox,  but  not  enough  to  hurt  his  looks  in  a 
woman’s  eye,  though  he’d  had  it  badish  when  he  was  a 
boy.  So  very  serious  looking  and  unsmiling  ’a  was, 
that  young  man,  that  it  really  seemed  as  if  he  couldn’t 
laugh  at  all  without  great  pain  to  his  conscience.  He 
looked  very  hard  at  a  small  speck  in  your  eye  when 
talking  to  ’ee.  And  there  was  no  more  sign  of  a  whis¬ 
ker  or  beard  on  Tony  Kytes’s  face  than  on  the  palm 
of  my  hand.  He  used  to  sing  ‘The  Tailor’s  Breeches’ 
with  a  rfeligious  manner,  as  if  it  were  a  hymn : 

O  the  petticoats  went  off,  and  the  breeches  they  went  on;’ 

and  all  the  rest  of  the  scandalous  stuff.  He  was  quite 
the  women’s  favorite,  and  in  return  for  their  likings  he 
loved  ’em  in  shoals. 

“  But  in  course  of  time  Tony  got  fixed  down  to  one 
in  particular,  Milly  Richards — a  nice,  light,  small,  ten¬ 
der  little  thing;  and  it  was  soon  said  that  they  were 
engaged  to  be  married.  One  Saturday  he  had  been 
to  market  to  do  business  for  his  father,  and  was  driv¬ 
ing  home  the  wagon  in  the  afternoon.  When  he 
reached  the  foot  of  the  very  hill  we  shall  be  going 
over  in  ten  minutes,  who  should  he  see  waiting  for 
him  at  the  top  but  Unity  Sallet,  a  handsome  girl,  one 
of  the  young  women  he’d  been  very  tender  towards 
before  he’d  got  engaged  to  Milly. 

13 


194 


life’s  little  ironies 


“As  soon  as  Tony  oame  up  to  her  she  said,  ‘My 
dear  Tony,  will  you  give  me  a  lift  home?’ 

“‘That  I  will,  darling,’  said  Tony.  ‘You  don’t 
suppose  I  could  refuse  ’ee  ?’ 

“She  smiled  a  smile,  and  up  she  hopped,  and  on 
drove  Tony. 

“‘Tony,’  she  says,  in  a  sort  of  tender  chide,  ‘why 
did  ye  desert  me  for  that  other  one  ?  In  what  is  she 
better  than  I  ?  I  should  have  made  ’ee  a  finer  wife, 
and  a  more  loving  one,  too.  ’Tisn’t  girls  that  are  so 
easily  won  at  first  that  are  the  best.  Think  how  long 
we’ve  known  each  other — ever  since  we  were  children 
almost — now  haven’t  we,  Tony  ?’ 

“  ‘Yes,  that  we  have,’  says  Tony,  a-struck  with  the 
truth  o’t. 

“‘And  you’ve  never  seen  anything  in  me  to  com¬ 
plain  of,  have  ye,  Tony  ?  Now  tell  the  truth  to  me.’ 

“  ‘  I  never  have,  upon  my  life,’  says  Tony. 

“  ‘  And — can  you  say  I’m  not  pretty,  Tony  ?  Now 
look  at  me  !’ 

“  He  let  his  eyes  light  upon  her  for  a  long  while. 
‘I  really  can’t,’  says  he.  ‘In  fact,  I  never  knowed 
you  was  so  pretty  before  !’ 

“  ‘  Prettier  than  she  ?’ 

“  What  Tony  would  have  said  to  that  nobody  knowTs, 
for  before  he  could  speak,  what  should  he  see  ahead, 
over  the  hedge  past  the  turning,  but  a  feather  he  knew 
well — the  feather  in  Milly’s  hat — she  to  whom  he  had 
been  thinking  of  putting  the  question  as  to  giving  out 
the  banns  that  very  week. 

“  ‘  Unity,’  says  he,  as  mild  as  he  could,  ‘  here’s  Milly 
coming.  Now  I  shall  catch  it  mightily  if  she  sees  ’ee 
riding  here  with  me;  and  if  you  get  down  she’ll  be 
turning  the  corner  in  a  moment,  and,  seeing  ’ee  in  the 
road,  she’ll  know  we’ve  been  coming  on  together. 
Now,  dearest  Unity,  will  ye,  to  avoid  all  unpleasant- 


TONY  KYTES,  THE  ARCH-DECEIVER  195 

ness,  which  I  know  ye  can’t  bear  any  more  than  I,  will 
ye  lie  down  in  the  back  part  of  the  wagon,  and  let  me 
cover  you  over  with  the  tarpaulin  till  Milly  has  passed  ? 
It  will  all  be  done  in  a  minute.  Do! — and  I’ll  think 
over  what  we’ve  said;  and  perhaps  I  shall  put  a  loving 
question  to  you  after  all,  instead  of  to  Milly.  ’Tisn’t 
true  that  it  is  all  settled  between  her  and  me.’ 

“Well,  Unity  Sallet  agreed,  and  lay  down  at  the 
back  end  of  the  wagon,  and  Tony  covered  her  over, 
so  that  the  wagon  seemed  to  be  empty  but  for  the 
loose  tarpaulin  ;  and  then  he  drove  on  to  meet  Milly. 

“  ‘  My  dear  Tony  !’  cries  Milly,  looking  up  with  a 
little  pout  at  him  as  he  came  near.  ‘  How  long  you’ve 
been  coming  home !  Just  as  if  I  didn’t  live  at  Upper 
Longpuddle  at  all !  And  I’ve  come  to  meet  you  as 
you  asked  me  to  do,  and  to  ride  back  with  you,  and 
talk  over  our  future  home — since  you  asked  me,  and 
I  promised.  But  I  shouldn’t  have  come  else,  Mr. 
Tony  !’ 

“  ‘  Ay,  my  dear,  I  did  ask  ye — to  be  sure  I  did,  now 
I  think  of  it — but  I  had  quite  forgot  it.  To  ride  back 
with  me,  did  you  say,  dear  Milly  ?’ 

“  ‘Well,  of  course  !  What  can  I  do  else?  Surely 
you  don’t  want  me  to  walk,  now  I’ve  come  all  this 
way  ?’ 

“  ‘  Oh  no,  no  !  I  was  thinking  you  might  be  go¬ 
ing  on  to  town  to  meet  your  mother.  I  saw  her 
there  —  and  she  looked  as  if  she  might  be  expect¬ 
ing  ’ee.’ 

“‘Oh  no;  she’s  just  home.  She  came  across  the 
fields,  and  so  got  back  before  you.’ 

“  ‘  Ah  !  I  didn’t  know  that,’  says  Tony.  And  there 
was  no  help  for  it  but  to  take  her  up  beside  him. 

“They  talked  on  very  pleasantly,  and  looked  at  the 
trees  and  beasts  and  birds  and  insects,  and  at  the 
ploughmen  at  work  in  the  fields,  till  presently  who 


196 


life’s  little  ieonies 

should  they  see  looking  out  of  the  upper  window  of  a 
house  that  stood  beside  the  road  they  were  following 
but  Hannah  Jolliver,  another  young  beauty  of  the 
place  at  that  time,  and  the  very  first  woman  that  Tony 
had  fallen  in  love  with  —  before  Milly  and  before 
Unitv,  in  fact — the  one  that  he  had  almost  arranged 

J  7  v? 

to  marrv  instead  of  Millv.  She  was  a  much  more 

«r 

dashing  girl  than  Milly  Richards,  though  he’d  not 
thought  much  of  her  of  late.  The  house  Hannah  was 
looking  from  was  her  aunt's. 

“  ‘  My  dear  Milly — my  coming  wife,  as  I  may  call 
’ee,’  says  Tony  in  his  modest  way,  and  not  so  loud 
that  Unity  could  overhear  ‘  I  see  a  young  woman  look- 
ing  out  of  window  who  I  think  mav  accost  me.  The 
fact  is,  Milly,  she  had  a  notion  that  I  was  wishing  to 
marry  her,  and  since  she's  discovered  I’ve  promised 
another,  and  prettier  than  she.  I'm  rather  afeared 
of  her  temper  if  she  sees  us  together.  Now,  Milly, 
would  you  do  me  a  favor — my  coming  wife,  as  I  may 
sav?’ 

«r 

“  ‘Certainly,  dearest  Tonv,’  savs  she. 

“‘Then  would  ye  creep  under  the  tarpaulin  just 
here  in  the  front  of  the  wagon,  and  hide  there  out  of 
sight  till  we've  passed  the  house?  She  hasn't  seen  us 
yet.  You  see,  we  ought  to  live  in  peace  and  good-will 
since  *tis  almost  Christmas,  and  'twill  prevent  angry 
passions  rising,  which  we  always  should  do.' 

“‘I  don’t  mind,  to  oblige  you,  Tony,’  Milly  said; 
and  though  she  didn't  care  much  about  doing  it,  she 
crept  under,  and  crouched  down  just  behind  the  seat, 
Unity  being  snug  at  the  other  end.  So  they  drove  on 
till  they  got  near  the  road-side  cottage.  Hannah  had 
soon  seen  him  coming,  and  waited  at  the  window, 
looking  down  upon  him.  She  tossed  her  head  a  little 
disdainful  and  smiled  off-hand. 

“  ‘Well,  aren't  you  going  to  be  civil  enough  to  ask 


TONY  KYTKS,  Till-:  ARCH-DECEIVER 


197 


me  to  ride  home  with  you?'  she  says,  seeing  that  he 
was  for  driving  past  with  a  nod  and  a  smile, 

“  ‘Ah,  to  be  sure  !  What  was  I  thinking  of?’  said 
Tony,  in  a  flutter.  ‘  But  you  seem  as  if  you  was  stay¬ 
ing  at  your  aunt’s?’ 

'“No,  l  am  not,’  she  said.  ‘Don’t  you  see  I  have 
my  bonnet  and  jacket  on  ?  I  have  onlv  called  to  see 
her  on  my  way  home.  How  can  you  be  so  stupid, 
Tony?’ 

“  *  In  that  case — ah — of  course  vou  must  come  alone 
wi’  me,’  says  Tony,  feeling  a  dim  sort  of  sweat  rising 
up  inside  his  clothes.  And  he  reined  in  the  horse,  and 
waited  till  she'd  come  down-stairs,  and  then  helped 
her  up  beside  him.  He  drove  on  again,  his  face  as 
long  as  a  face  that  was  a  round  one  by  nature  well 


into  his  eyes. 
‘  I  like  riding 

*  And  I  with 


could  be. 

“  Hannah  looked  round  sideways 
‘This  is  nice,  isn’t  it,  Tony?’  she  says, 
with  you.’ 

“Tony  looked  back  into  her  eyes, 
you,’  he  said,  after  a  while.  In  short,  having  consid¬ 
ered  her,  he  warmed  up,  and  the  more  he  looked  at 
her  the  more  he  liked  her,  till  he  couldn’t  for  the  life 
of  him  think  why  he  had  ever  said  a  word  about  mar¬ 
riage  to  Milly  or  Unity  while  Hannah  .Tolliver  was  in 
question.  So  they  sat  a  little  closer  and  closer,  their 
feet  upon  the  foot  hoard  and  their  shoulders  touching, 
and  Tony  thought  over  ami  over  again  how  handsome 
Hannah  was.  He  spoke  tenderer  and  tenderer,  and 
called  her  ‘dear  Hannah'  in  a  whisper  at  last. 

“  *  You’ve  settled  it  with  Milly  by  this  time,  I  sup¬ 
pose,’  said  she. 

“  ‘N — no,  not  exactly,’ 

“  ‘  What  ?  How  low  you  talk,  Tonv.‘ 

w  *  • 

“‘Yes — I’ve  a  kind  of  hoarseness.  I  said,  not  ex¬ 


actly.’ 


198 


life’s  little  ironies 


“  £ I  suppose  you  mean  to?’ 

<£  ‘  Well,  as  to  that — ’  His  eyes  rested  on  her  face, 
and  hers  on  his.  He  wondered  how  he  could  hare 
been  such  a  fool  as  not  to  follow  up  Hannah.  ‘  My 
sweet  Hannah !’  he  bursts  out,  taking  her  hand,  rot 
being  really  able  to  help  it,  and  forgetting  Milly  and 
Unity  and  all  the  world  besides.  ‘Settled  it?  I 
don’t  think  I  have  !’ 

“  £  Hark !’  says  Hannah. 

“  ‘  What  ?’  says  Tony,  letting  go  her  hand. 

“  ‘  Surely  I  heard  a  sort  of  little  screaming  squeak 
under  that  tar -cloth?  Why,  you’ve  been  carrying 
corn,  and  there’s  mice  in  this  wagon,  I  declare  !’  She 
began  to  haul  up  the  tails  of  her  gown. 

“  £  Oh  no  ;  ’tis  the  axle,’  said  Tony,  in  an  assuring 
way.  £It  do  go  like  that  sometimes  in  dry  weather.’ 

££  £  Perhaps  it  was.  .  .  .  Well,  now,  to  be  quite  honest, 
dear  Tony,  do  you  like  her  better  than  me  ?  Because 
— because,  although  I’ve  held  off  so  independent,  I’ll 
own  at  last  that  I  do  like  ’ee,  Tony,  to  tell  the  truth  ; 
and  I  wouldn’t  say  no  if  you  asked  me  —  you  know 
what.’ 

“Tony  was  so  won  over  by  this  pretty  offering 
mood  of  a  girl  who  had  been  quite  the  reverse  (Han¬ 
nah  had  a  backward  way  with  her  at  times,  if  you  can 
mind)  that  he  just  glanced  behind,  and  then  whispered 
very  soft,  £  I  haven’t  quite  promised  her,  and  I  think 
I  can  get  out  of  it,  and  ask  you  that  question  you 
speak  of.’ 

££  £  Throw  over  Milly? — all  to  marry  me  !  How  de¬ 
lightful  !’  broke  out  Hannah,  quite  loud,  clapping  her 
hands. 

“At  this  there  was  a  real  squeak — an  angry,  spite¬ 
ful  squeak,  and  afterwards  a  long  moan,  as  if  something 
had  broke  its  heart,  and  a  movement  of  the  wagon 
cloth. 


TONY  KYTES,  THE  ARCH-DECEIVER  199 

“ ‘  Something’s  there  !’  said  Hannah,  starting  up. 

“  ‘  It’s  nothing,  really,’  says  Tony,  in  a  soothing 
voice,  and  praying  inwardly  for  a  way  out  of  this. 

‘ 1  wouldn’t  tell  ’ee  at  first,  because  I  wouldn’t  fright¬ 
en  ’ee.  But,  Hannah,  I’ve  really  a  couple  of  ferrets 
in  a  bag  under  there,  for  rabbiting,  and  they  quarrel 
sometimes.  I  don’t  wish  it  knowed,  as  ’twould  be 
called  poaching.  Oh,  they  can’t  get  out,  bless  ye  ! — 
you  are  quite  safe.  And — and — what  a  fine  day  it  is, 
isn’t  it,  Hannah,  for  this  time  of  year  ?  Be  you  going 
to  market  next  Saturday?  How  is  your  aunt  now?’ 
And  so  on,  says  Tony,  to  keep  her  from  talking  any 
more  about  love  in  Milly’s  hearing. 

“  But  he  found  his  work  cut  out  for  him,  and  won¬ 
dering  again  how  he  should  get  out  of  this  ticklish 
business,  he  looked  about  for  a  chance.  Nearing  home 
he  saw  his  father  in  a  field  not  far  off,  holding  up  his 
hand  as  if  he  wished  to  speak  to  Tony. 

Would  you  mind  taking  the  reins  a  moment, 
Hannah,’  he  said,  much  relieved,  ‘  while  I  go  and  find 
out  what  father  wants  ?’ 

“  She  consented,  and  awav  he  hastened  into  the  field, 
only  too  glad  to  get  breathing-time.  He  found  that 
his  father  was  looking  at  him  with  rather  a  stern  eye. 

“  ‘  Come,  come,  Tony,’  says  old  Mr.  Kytes,  as  soon  as 
his  son  was  alongside  him,  i  this  won’t  do,  you  know.’ 

“  ‘  What  ?’  says  Tony. 

“  ‘  Why,  if  you  mean  to  marry  Milly  Richards,  do 
it,  and  there’s  an  end  o’t.  But  don’t  go  driving  about 
the  country  with  Jolliver’s  daughter  and  making  a 
scandal.  I  won’t  have  such  things  done.’ 

“ i  I  only  asked  her — that  is,  she  asked  me — to  ride 
home.’ 

“  ‘  She  ?  Why,  now,  if  it  had  been  Milly,  ’twould 
have  been  quite  proper;  but  you  and  Hannah  Jolliver 
going  about  by  yourselves — ’ 


300 


life’s  little  ibonies 


44 4  Milly’s  there,  too,  father.’ 

“‘Milly?  Where?’ 

“  4  Under  the  tarpaulin  !  Yes  ;  the  truth  is,  father, 
I’ve  got  rather  into  a  nunny-watch,  I’m  afeard!  Unity 
Sallet  is  there,  too — yes,  under  the  other  end  of  the 
tarpaulin.  All  three  are  in  that  wagon,  and  what  to 
do  with  ’em  I  know  no  more  than  the  dead.  The  best 
plan  is,  as  I’m  thinking,  to  speak  out  loud  and  plain 
to  one  of  ’em  before  the  rest,  and  that  will  settle  it ; 
not  but  what  ’twill  cause  ’em  to  kick  up  a  bit  of  a 
miff,  for  certain.  Now,  which  would  you  marry,  fa¬ 
ther,  if  you  was  in  my  place  ?’ 

44  *  Whichever  of  ’em  did  not  ask  to  ride  with  thee.’ 

44 4  That  was  Milly,  I’m  bound  to  say,  as  she  only 
mounted  by  my  invitation.  But  Milly — ’ 

44 4  Then  stick  to  Milly,  she’s  the  best.  . .  .  But  look  at 
that !’ 

44  His  father  pointed  towards  the  wagon.  4  She  can’t 
hold  that  horse  in.  You  shouldn’t  have  left  the  reins 
in  her  hands.  Run  on  and  take  the  horse’s  head,  or 
there’ll  be  some  accident  to  them  maids  !’ 

44  Tony’s  horse,  in  fact,  in  spite  of  Hannah’s  tugging 
at  the  reins,  had  started  on  his  way  at  a  brisk  walking 
pace,  being  very  anxious  to  get  back  to  the  stable,  for 
he  had  had  a  long  day  out.  Without  another  word, 
Tony  rushed  away  from  his  father  to  overtake  the 
horse. 

“Now,  of  all  things  that  could  have  happened  to 
wean  him  from  Milly,  there  was  nothing  so  powerful 
as  his  father’s  recommending  her.  No  ;  it  could  not 
be  Milly,  after  all.  Hannah  must  be  the  one,  since  he 
could  not  marry  all  three.  This  he  thought  while 
running  after  the  wagon.  But  queer  things  were  hap¬ 
pening  inside  it. 

44  It  was,  of  course,  Milly  who  had  screamed  under 
the  tarpaulin,  being  obliged  to  let  off  her  bitter  rage 


TONY  KYTES,  THE  ARCH-DECEIVER  201 

and  shame  in  that  way  at  what  Tony  was  saying,  and 
never  daring  to  show,  for  very  pride  and  dread  o’  be¬ 
ing  laughed  at,  that  she  was  in  hiding.  She  became 
more  and  more  restless,  and  in  twisting  herself  about, 
what  did  she  see  but  another  woman’s  foot  and  white 
stocking  close  to  her  head.  It  quite  frightened  her, 
not  knowing  that  Unity  Sallet  was  in  the  wagon  like¬ 
wise.  But  after  the  fright  was  over  she  determined 
to  get  to  the  bottom  of  all  this,  and  she  crept  and 
crept  along  the  bed  of  the  wagon,  under  the  cloth, 
like  a  snake,  when  lo  and  behold  she  came  face  to  face 
with  Unity. 

“‘Well,  if  this  isn’t  disgraceful !’  says  Milly,  in  a 
raging  whisper,  to  Unity. 

“  ‘  ’Tis,’  says  Unity,  ‘to  see  you  hiding  in  a  young 
man’s  wagon  like  this,  and  no  great  character  belong¬ 
ing  to  either  of  ye  !’ 

“  ‘  Mind  what  you  are  saying !’  replied  Milly,  get¬ 
ting  louder.  ‘I  am  engaged  to  be  married  to  him, 
and  haven’t  I  a  right  to  be  here  ?  What  right  have 
you,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  What  has  he  been  prom¬ 
ising  you?  A  pretty  lot  of  nonsense,  I  expect !  But 
what  Tony  says  to  other  women  is  all  mere  wind,  and 
no  concern  to  me  !’ 

‘“Don’t  you  be  too  sure  !’  says  Unity.  ‘He’s  go¬ 
ing  to  have  Hannah,  and  not  you,  nor  me  either ;  I 
could  hear  that.’ 

“  Now,  at  these  strange  voices  sounding  from  under 
the  cloth  Hannah  was  thunderstruck  a’most  into  a 
swound ;  and  it  was  just  at  this  time  that  the  horse 
moved  on.  Hannah  tugged  away  wildly,  not  know¬ 
ing  what  she  was  doing ;  and  as  the  quarrel  rose 
louder  and  louder  Hannah  got  so  horrified  that  she  let 
go  the  reins  altogether.  The  horse  went  on  at  his 
own  pace,  and  coming  to  the  corner  where  we  turn 
round  to  drop  down  the  hill  to  Lower  Longpuddle 


202 


LIFE'S  LITTLE  IRONIES 


he  turned  too  quick,  the  off- wheels  went  up  the  bank, 
the  wagon  rose  sideways  till  it  was  quite  on  edge 
upon  the  near  axles,  and  out  rolled  the  three  maidens 
into  the  road  in  a  heap. 

“  When  Tony  came  up,  frightened  and  breathless, 
he  was  relieved  enough  to  see  that  neither  of  his  dar¬ 
lings  was  hurt,  beyond  a  few  scratches  from  the  bram¬ 
bles  of  the  hedge.  But  he  was  rather  alarmed  when 
he  heard  how  they  were  going  on  at  one  another. 

4* 4  Don’t  ye  quarrel,  my  dears— -don’t  ye  !’  says  he, 
taking  off  his  hat  out  of  respect  to  ’em.  And  then  he 
would  have  kissed  them  all  round,  as  fair  and  square 
as  a  man  could,  but  they  were  in  too  much  of  a  taking 
to  let  him,  and  screeched  and  sobbed  till  they  was 
quite  spent* 

“‘Now,  I’ll  speak  out  honest,  because  I  ought  to,’ 
says  Tony,  as  soon  as  he  could  get  heard.  4  And  this 
is  the  truth,’  says  he  :  4  I’ve  asked  Hannah  to  be  mine, 
and  she  is  willing,  and  we  are  going  to  put  up  the 
banns  next — ’ 

“Tony  had  not  noticed  that  Hannah’s  father  was 
coming  up  behind,  nor  had  he  noticed  that  Hannah’s 
i  ice  was  beginning  to  bleed  from  the  scratch  of  a 
b  amble.  Hannah  had  seen  her  father,  and  had  run 
to  him,  crying  worse  than  ever. 

“  4  My  daughter  is  not  willing,  sir,’  says  Mr.  Jolliver, 
hot  and  strong.  ‘  Be  you  willing,  Hannah  ?  I  ask  ye 
to  have  spirit  enough  to  refuse  him,  if  yer  virtue  is 
left  to  ’ee  and  you  run  no  risk?’ 

“  4  She’s  as  sound  as  a  bell  for  me,  that  I’ll  swear !’ 
say 8  Tony,  Haring  up.  4  And  so’s  the  others,  come  to 
that,  though  you  may  think  it  an  onusual  thing !’ 

“ 4 1  have  spirit,  and  I  do  refuse  him !’  says  Hannah, 
partly  because  her  father  was  there,  and  partly,  too, 
in  a  tantrum  because  of  the  discovery  and  the  scratch 
on  her  face.  4  Little  did  I  think  when  I  was  so  soft 


TONY  KYTES,  THE  ARCH-DECEIVEB  303 

with  him  just  now  that  I  was  talking  to  such  a  false 
deceiver !’ 

“  ‘What,  you  won’t  have  me,  Hannah?’  says  Tony, 
his  jaw  hanging  down  like  a  dead  man’s. 

“  ‘Never;  I  would  sooner  marry  no — nobody  at  all!’ 
she  gasped  out,  though  with  her  heart  in  her  throat, 
for  she  would  not  have  refused  Tony  if  he  had  asked 
her  quietly,  and  her  father  had  not  been  there,  and 
her  face  had  not  been  scratched  by  the  bramble.  And 
having  said  that,  away  she  walked  upon  her  father’s 
arm,  thinking  and  hoping  he  would  ask  her  again. 

“  Tony  didn’t  know  what  to  say  next^  Milly  was 
sobbing  her  heart  out ;  but  as  his  father  had  strongly 
recommended  her  he  couldn’t  feel  inclined  that  way. 
So  he  turned  to  Unity. 

“  ‘  Well,  will  you,  Unity  dear,  be  mine?’  he  says. 

“‘Take  her  leavings?  Not  I!’  says  Unity.  ‘I’d 
scorn  it!’  And  away  walks  Unity  Sallet  likewise, 
though  she  looked  back  when  she’d  gone  some  way, 
to  see  if  he  was  following  her. 

“  So  there  at  last  were  left  Milly  and  Tony  by  them¬ 
selves,  she  crying  in  watery  streams,  and  Tony  looking 
like  a  tree  struck  by  lightning. 

“  ‘Well,  Milly,’  he  says  at  last,  going  up  to  her,  ‘it 
do  seem  as  if  fate  had  ordained  that  it  should  be  you 
and  I,  or  nobody.  And  what  must  be  must  be,  I  sup¬ 
pose.  Hey,  Milly?’ 

“  ‘If  you  like, Tony.  You  didn’t  really  mean  what 
you  said  to  them?’ 

“  ‘Not  a  word  of  it,’  declares  Tony,  bringing  down 
his  fist  upon  his  palm. 

“And  then  he  kissed  her,  and  put  the  wagon  to 
rights,  and  they  mounted  together ;  and  their  banns 
were  put  up  the  very  next  Sunday.  I  was  not  able  to 
go  to  their  wedding,  but  it  was  a  rare  party  they  had, 
by  all  account.  Everybody  in  Longpuddle  was  there 


304 


life’s  little  ibonies 


almost ;  yon  among  the  rest,  I  think,  Mr.  Flaxton?” 
The  speaker  turned  to  the  parish-clerk. 

“I  was,”  said  Mr.  Flaxton.  ‘And  that  party  was 
the  cause  of  a  very  curious  change  in  some  other  peo¬ 
ple’s  affairs ;  I  mean  in  Steve  Hardcome’s  and  his 
cousin  James’s.” 

“Ah!  the  Hardcomes,”  said  the  stranger.  “How 
familiar  that  name  is  to  me!  What  of  them?” 

The  clerk  cleared  his  throat  and  began : 


THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  HARDCOMES 


“  Yes,  Tony’s  was  the  very  best  wedding-randy  that 
ever  I  was  at ;  and  I’ve  been  at  a  good  many,  as  you 
may  suppose” — turning  to  the  newly-arrived  one  — 
“  having,  as  a  Church  officer,  the  privilege  to  attend  all 
christening,  wedding,  and  funeral  parties — such  being 
our  Wessex  custom. 

“  ’Twas  on  a  frosty  night  in  Christmas  week,  and 
among  the  folk  invited  were  the  said  Ilardcomes  o’ 
Climmerston — Steve  and  James — first  cousins,  both  of 
them  small  farmers,  just  entering  into  business  on  their 
own  account.  With  them  came,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
their  intended  wives,  two  young  women  of  the  neigh¬ 
borhood,  both  very  pretty  and  sprightly  maidens,  and 
numbers  of  friends  from  Abbot ’s-Cernel  and  Weather- 
bury  and  Mellstock  and  I  don’t  know  where — a  regu¬ 
lar  houseful. 

“  The  kitchen  was  cleared  of  furniture  for  dancing, 
and  the  old  folk  played  at  ‘Put’  and  ‘All-fours’  in 
the  parlor,  though  at  last  they  gave  that  up  to  join  in 
the  dance.  The  top  of  the  figure  was  by  the  large 
front  window  of  the  room,  and  there  were  so  many 
couples  that  the  lower  part  of  the  figure  reached 
through  the  door  at  the  back,  and  into  the  darkness 
of  the  out-house ;  in  fact,  you  couldn’t  see  the  end  of 
the  row  at  all,  and  ’twas  never  known  exactly  how 
long  that  dance  was,  the  lowest  couples  being  lost 
among  the  fagots  and  brushwood  in  the  out-house. 

“  When  we  had  danced  a  few  hours,  and  the  crowns 
of  we  taller  men  were  swelling  into  lumps  with  bump- 

o 


m 


life’s  little  ironies 


mg  the  beams  of  the  ceiling,  the  first  fiddler  laid  down 
his  fiddle-bow,  and  said  he  should  play  no  more,  for  he 
wished  to  dance.  And  in  another  hour  the  second 
fiddler  laid  down  his,  and  said  he  wanted  to  dance, 
too ;  so  there  was  only  the  third  fiddler  left,  and  he 
was  a’  old,  aged  man,  very  weak  in  the  wrist.  How¬ 
ever,  he  managed  to  keep  up  a  feeble  tweedle-dee; 
but  there  being  no  chair  in  the  room,  and  his  knees 
being  as  weak  as  his  wrists,  he  was  obliged  to  sit  upon 
as  much  of  the  little  corner-table  as  projected  beyond 
the  corner  cupboard  fixed  over  it,  which  was  not  a  very 
wide  seat  for  a  man  advanced  in  years. 

“Among  those  who  danced  most  continually  were 
the  two  engaged  couples,  as  was  natural  to  their  situ¬ 
ation.  Each  pair  was  very  well  matched,  and  very 
unlike  the  other.  James  Hardcome’s  intended  was 
called  Emily  Darth,  and  both  she  and  James  were 
gentle,  nice -minded,  in-door  people,  fond  of  a  quiet 
life.  Steve  and  his  chosen,  named  Olive  Pawle,  were 
different ;  they  were  of  a  more  bustling  nature,  fond 
of  racketing  about  and  seeing  what  was  going  on 
in  the  world.  The  two  couples  had  arranged  to  get 
married  on  the  same  day,  and  that  not  long  thence ; 
Tony’s  wedding  being  a  sort  of  stimulant,  as  is  often 
the  case  ;  I’ve  noticed  it  professionally  many  times. 

“They  danced  with  such  a  will  as  only  young  peo¬ 
ple  in  that  stage  of  courtship  can  dance ;  and  it  hap¬ 
pened  that  as  the  evening  wore  on  James  had  for  his 
partner  Stephen’s  plighted  one,  Olive,  at  the  same  time 
that  Stephen  was  dancing  with  James’s  Emily.  It  was 
noticed  that  in  spite  o’  the  exchange  the  young  men 
seemed  to  enjoy  the  dance  no  less  than  before.  By- 
and-by  they  were  treading  another  tune  in  the  same 
changed  order  as  we  had  noticed  earlier,  and  though 
at  first  each  one  had  held  the  other’s  mistress  strictly 
at  half -arm’s  length,  lest  there  should  be  shown  any 


THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  HARDCOMES 


m 


objection  to  too  close  quarters  by  the  lady’s  proper 
man,  as  time  passed  there  was  a  little  more  closeness 
between  ’em ;  and  presently  a  little  more  closeness 
still. 

“  The  later  it  got  the  more  did  each  of  the  two 
cousins  dance  with  the  wrong  young  girl,  and  the 
tighter  did  he  hold  her  to  his  side  as  he  whirled  her 
round;  and,  what  was  very  remarkable,  neither  seemed 
to  mind  what  the  other  was  doing.  The  party  began 
to  draw  towards  its  end,  and  I  saw  no  more  that  night, 
being  one  of  the  first  to  leave,  on  account  of  my  serious 
calling.  But  I  learned  the  rest  of  it  from  those  that 
knew. 

“  After  finishing  a  particularly  warming  dance 
with  the  changed  partners,  as  I’ve  mentioned,  the 
two  young  men  looked  at  one  another,  and  in  a  mo¬ 
ment  or  two  went  out  into  the  porch  together. 

“  ‘  James,’  says  Steve,  ‘what  were  you  thinking  of 
when  you  were  dancing  with  my  Olive?’ 

“‘Well,’  said  James,  ‘perhaps  what  you  were 
thinking  of  when  you  were  dancing  with  my  Emily.’ 

“  ‘  I  was  thinking,’  said  Steve,  with  some  hesita¬ 
tion,  ‘  that  I  wouldn’t  mind  changing  for  good  and 
all  !’ 

“  ‘It  was  what  I  was  feeling  likewise,’  said  James. 

“  ‘  I  willingly  agree  to  it,  if  you  think  we  could 
manage  it.’ 

“  ‘  So  do  I.  But  what  would  the  girls  say  ?’ 

“  ‘  ’Tis  my  belief,’  said  Steve,  ‘  that  they  wouldn’t 
particularly  object.  Your  Emily  clung  as  close  to  me 
as  if  she  already  belonged  to  me,  dear  girl.’ 

“‘And  your  Olive  to  me,’  says  James.  ‘I  could 
feel  her  heart  beating  like  a  clock.’ 

“  Well,  they  agreed  to  put  it  to  the  girls  when  they 
were  all  four  walking  home  together.  And  they  did 
so.  When  they  parted  that  night  the  exchange  was 


208 


life’s  little  ironies 


decided  on  —  all  having  been  done  under  the  hot  ex¬ 
citement  of  that  evening’s  dancing.  Thus  it  happened 
that  on  the  following  Sunday  morning,  when  the 
people  were  sitting  in  church  with  mouths  wide  open 
to  hear  the  names  published  as  they  had  expected, 
tbere  was  no  small  amazement  to  hear  them  coupled 
the  wrong  way,  as  it  seemed.  The  congregation  whis¬ 
pered,  and  thought  the  parson  had  made  a  mistake, 
till  they  discovered  that  his  reading  of  the  names  was 
verily  the  true  way.  As  they  had  decided,  so  they 
were  married,  each  one  to  the  other’s  original  prop¬ 
erty. 

“  Well,  the  two  couples  lived  on  for  a  year  or  two 
ordinarily  enough,  till  the  time  came  when  these 
young  people  began  to  grow  a  little  less  warm  to 
their  respective  spouses,  as  is  the  rule  of  married  life ; 
and  the  two  cousins  wondered  more  and  more  in  their 
hearts  what  had  made  ’em  so  mad  at  the  last  moment 
to  marry  crosswise  as  they  did,  when  they  might  have 
married  straight,  as  was  planned  by  nature,  and  as 
they  had  fallen  in  love.  ’Twas  Tony’s  party  that  had 
done  it,  plain  enough,  and  they  half  wished  they  had 
never  gone  there.  J ames,  being  a  quiet,  fireside,  pe¬ 
rusing  man,  felt  at  times  a  wide  gap  between  himself 
and  Olive,  his  wife,  who  loved  riding  and  driving  and 
out-door  jaunts  to  a  degree  ;  while  Steve,  who  was 
always  knocking  about  hither  and  thither,  had  a 
very  domestic  wife,  who  worked  samplers,  and  made 
hearth-rugs,  scarcely  ever  wished  to  cross  the  thresh¬ 
old,  and  only  drove  out  with  him  to  please  him. 

“  However,  they  said  very  little  about  this  mis- 
mating  to  any  of  their  acquaintances,  though  some¬ 
times  Steve  would  look  at  James’s  wife  and  sigh,  and 
James  would  look  at  Steve’s  wife  and  do  the  same. 
Indeed,  at  last  the  two  men  were  frank  enough  tow¬ 
ards  each  other  not  to  mind  mentioning  it  quietly 


THE  HISTOBY  OF  THE  HARDCOMB8 


m 


to  themselves,  in  a  long  -  faced,  sorry  -  smiling,  whim¬ 
sical  sort  of  way,  and  would  shake  their  heads  to¬ 
gether  over  their  foolishness  in  upsetting  a  well-con¬ 
sidered  choice  on  the  strength  of  an  hour’s  fancy  in 
the  whirl  and  wildness  of  a  dance.  Still,  they  were 
sensible  and  honest  young  fellows  enough,  and  did 
their  best  to  make  shift  with  their  lot  as  they  had  ar¬ 
ranged  it,  and  not  to  repine  at  what  could  not  now 
be  altered  or  mended. 

“  So  things  remained  till  one  fine  summer  day  they 
went  for  their  yearly  little  outing  together,  as  they 
had  made  it  their  custom  to  do  for  a  long  while  past. 
This  year  they  chose  Budmouth-Regis  as  the  place  to 
spend  their  holiday  in;  and  off  they  went  in  their 
best  clothes  at  nine  o’clock  in  the  morning. 

“When  they  had  reached  Budmouth-Regis  they 
walked  two  and  two  along  the  shore — their  new  boots 
going  squeakity-squash  upon  the  clammy  velvet  sands. 
I  can  seem  to  see  ’em  now  !  Then  they  looked  at  the 
ships  in  the  harbor  ;  and  then  went  up  to  the  Look¬ 
out;  and  then  had  dinner  at  an  inn  ;  and  then  again 
walked  two  and  two,  squeakity-squash,  upon  the  vel¬ 
vet  sands.  As  evening  drew  on  they  sat  on  one  of 
the  public  seats  upon  the  Esplanade,  and  listened  to 
the  band  ;  and  then  they  said  “  What  shall  we  do 
next  ?” 

“  ‘  Of  all  things,’  said  Olive  (Mrs.  James  Hardcome, 
that  is),  ‘  I  should  like  to  row  in  the  bay  !  We  could 
listen  to  the  music  from  the  water  as  well  as  from 
here,  and  have  the  fun  of  rowing  besides.’1 

“‘The  very  thing  ;  so  should  I,’  says  Stephen,  his 
tastes  being  always  like  hers. 

Here  the  clerk  turned  to  the  curate. 

“  But  you,  sir,  know  the  rest  of  the  strange  partic¬ 
ulars  of  that  strange  evening  of  their  lives  better 
than  anybody  else,  having  had  much  of  it  from  their 
14  ‘ 


5510 


life’s  little  ironies 


own  lips,  which  I  had  not ;  and  perhaps  you’ll  oblige 
the  gentleman  ?” 

“  Certainly,  if  it  is  wished,”  said  the  curate.  And 
he  took  up  the  clerk’s  tale  : 

“ Stephen’s  wife  hated  the  sea,  except  from  land, 
and  couldn’t  bear  the  thought  of  going  into  a  boat. 
James,  too,  disliked  the  water,  and  said  that  for  his 
part  he  would  much  sooner  stay  on  and  listen  to  the 
band  in  the  seat  they  occupied,  though  he  did  not 
wish  to  stand  in  his  wife’s  way  if  she  desired  a  row. 
The  end  of  the  discussion  was  that  James  and  his 
cousin’s  wife  Emily  agreed  to  remain  where  they 
were  sitting  and  enjoy  the  music,  while  they  watched 
the  other  two  hire  a  boat  just  beneath,  and  take  their 
water  excursion  of  half  an  hour  or  so,  till  they  should 
choose  to  come  back  and  join  the  sitters  on  the  Es¬ 
planade,  when  they  would  all  start  homeward  together. 

“Nothing  could  have  pleased  the  other  two  restless 
ones  better  than  this  arrangement;  and  Emily  and 
James  watched  them  go  down  to  the  boatman  be¬ 
low  and  choose  one  of  the  little  yellow  skiffs,  and 
walk  carefully  out  upon  the  little  plank  that  was 
laid  on  trestles  to  enable  them  to  get  alongside  the 
craft.  They  saw  Stephen  hand  Olive  in,  and  take 
his  seat  facing  her  ;  when  they  were  settled  they 
waved  their  hands  to  the  couple  watching  them,  and 
then  Stephen  took  the  pair  of  sculls  and  pulled  off 
to  the  tune  beat  by  the  band,  she  steering  through 
the  other  boats  skimming  about,  for  the  sea  was  as 
smooth  as  glass  that  evening,  and  pleasure -seekers 
were  rowing  everywhere. 

“  ‘  How  pretty  they  look  moving  on,  don’t  they  ?’ 
said  Emily  to  James  (as  I’ve  been  assured).  ‘They 
both  enjoy  it  equally.  In  everything  their  likings  are 
the  same.’ 


THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  HARDCOMES 


311 


“  ‘  That’s  true,5  said  James. 

“  ‘  They  would  have  made  a  handsome  pair  if  they 
had  married,’  said  she. 

“  ‘  Yes,’  said  he.  ‘  ’Tis  a  pity  we  should  have  part¬ 
ed  ’em.’ 

“  ‘  Don’t  talk  of  that,  James,’  said  she.  ‘  For  better 
or  for  worse  we  decided  to  do  as  we  did,  and  there’s 
an  end  of  it.’ 

“  They  sat  on  after  that  without  speaking,  side  by 
side,  and  the  band  played  as  before;  the  people  strolled 
up  and  down,  and  Stephen  and  Olive  shrank  smaller 
and  smaller  as  they  shot  straight  out  to  sea.  The  two 
on  shore  used  to  relate  how  they  saw  Stephen  stop 
rowing  a  moment,  and  take  off  his  coat  to  get  at  his 
work  better;  but  James’s  wife  sat  quite  still  in  the 
stern,  holding  the  tiller-ropes  by  which  she  steered 
the  boat.  When  they  had  got  very  small  indeed  she 
turned  her  head  to  shore. 

“ 4  She  is  waving  her  handkerchief  to  us,’  said  Ste¬ 
phen’s  wife,  who  thereupon  pulled  out  her  own,  and 
waved  it  as  a  return  signal. 

“  The  boat’s  course  had  been  a  little  awry  while 
Mrs.  James  neglected  her  steering  to  wave  her  hand¬ 
kerchief  to  her  husband  and  Mrs.  Stephen;  but  now 
the  light  skiff  went  straight  onward  again,  and  they 
could  soon  see  nothing  more  of  the  two  figures  it  con¬ 
tained  than  Olive’s  light  mantle  and  Stephen’s  white 
shirt-sleeves  behind. 

“  The  two  on  the  shore  talked  on.  4  ’Twas  very 
curious — our  changing  partners  at  Tony  Kytes’s  wed¬ 
ding,’  Emily  declared.  ‘Tony  was  of  a  fickle  nature 
by  all  account,  and  it  really  seemed  as  if  his  character 
had  infected  us  that  night.  Which  of  you  two  was 
it  that  first  proposed  not  to  marry  as  we  were  en¬ 
gaged  V 

“  ‘  H’m — I  can’t  remember  at  this  moment,’  says 


212 


life’s  little  ironies 


James.  ‘We  talked  it  over,  you  know,  and  no  sooner 
said  than  done.’ 

“  *  ’Twas  the  dancing,’  said  she.  ‘  People  get  quite 
crazy  sometimes  in  a  dance.’ 

“  ‘  They  do,’  he  owned. 

“‘  James — do  you  think  they  care  for  one  another 
still  V  asks  Mrs.  Stephen. 

“  James  Hardcome  mused,  and  admitted  that  per¬ 
haps  a  little  tender  feeling  might  flicker  up  in  their 
hearts  for  a  moment  now  and  then.  ‘  Still,  nothing  of 
any  account,’  he  said. 

“  ‘  I  sometimes  think  that  Olive  is  in  Steve’s  mind 
a  good  deal,’  murmurs  Mrs.  Stephen;  ‘particularly 
when  she  pleases  his  fancy  by  riding  past  our  window 
at  a  gallop  on  one  of  the  draught-horses.  ...  I  never 
could  do  anything  of  that  sort;  I  could  never  get  over 
my  fear  of  a  horse.’ 

“ 4  And  I  am  no  horseman,  though  I  pretend  to  be 
on  her  account,’  murmured  James  Hardcome.  ‘  But 
isn’t  it  almost  time  for  them  to  turn  and  sweep  round 
to  the  shore,  as  the  other  boating  folk  have  done  ?  I 
wonder  what  Olive  means  by  steering  away  straight 
to  the  horizon  like  that  ?  She  has  hardly  swerved  from 
a  direct  line  seaward  since  they  started.’ 

“  *  No  doubt  they  are  talking,  and  don’t  think  of 
where  they  are  going,’  suggests  Stephen’s  wife. 

“‘Perhaps  so,’  said  James.  ‘I  didn’t  know  Steve 
could  row  like  that.’ 

“  ‘  Oh  yes,’  says  she.  ‘  Pie  often  comes  here  on  busi¬ 
ness,  and  generally  has  a  pull  round  the  bay.’ 

“‘I  can  hardly  see  the  boat  or  them,’  says  James 
again ;  ‘  and  it  is  getting  dark.’ 

“The  heedless  pair  afloat  now  formed  a  mere  speck 
in  the  films  of  the  coming  night,  which  thickened  apace, 
till  it  completely  swallowed  up  their  distant  shapes. 
They  had  disappeared  while  still  following  the  same 


THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  HARDCOMES 


213 


straight  course  away  from  the  world  of  land-livers,  as 
if  they  were  intending  to  drop  over  the  sea-edge  into 
space,  and  never  return  to  earth  again. 

“  The  two  on  the  shore  continued  to  sit  on,  punctu¬ 
ally  abiding  by  their  agreement  to  remain  on  the  same 
spot  till  the  others  returned.  The  Esplanade  lamps 
were  lit  one  by  one,  the  bandsmen  folded  up  their 
stands  and  departed,  the  yachts  in  the  bay  hung  out 
their  riding  lights,  and  the  little  boats  came  back  to 
shore  one  after  another,  their  hirers  walking  on  to  the 
sands  by  the  plank  they  had  climbed  to  go  afloat ;  but 
among  these  Stephen  and  Olive  did  not  appear. 

“  ‘  What  a  time  they  are !’  said  Emily.  ‘I  am  get¬ 
ting  quite  chilly.  I  did  not  expect  to  have  to  sit  so 
long  in  the  evening  air.’ 

“  Thereupon  James  Ilardcome  said  that  he  did  not 
require  his  overcoat,  and  insisted  on  lending  it  to  her. 

“  He  wrapped  it  round  Emily’s  shoulders. 

“‘ Thank  you,  James,’  she  said.  ‘How  cold  Olive 
must  be  in  that  thin  jacket!’ 

“  He  said  he  was  thinking  so,  too.  ‘Well,  they  are 
sure  to  be  quite  close  at  hand  by  this  time,  though  we 
can’t  see  ’em.  The  boats  are  not  all  in  yet.  Some  of 
the  rowers  are  fond  of  paddling  along  the  shore  to 
finish  out  their  hour  of  hiring.’ 

“  ‘  Shall  we  walk  by  the  edge  of  the  water,’  said  she, 
‘  to  see  if  we  can  discover  them  ?’ 

“He  assented,  reminding  her  that  they  must  not 
lose  sight  of  the  seat,  lest  the  belated  pair  should  re¬ 
turn  and  miss  them,  and  be  vexed  that  they  had  not 
kept  the  appointment. 

“  They  walked  a  sentry  beat  up  and  down  the  sands 
immediately  opposite  the  seat;  and  still  the  others  did 
not  come.  James  Hardcome  at  last  went  to  the  boat¬ 
man,  thinking  that  after  all  his  wife  and  cousin  might 
have  come  in  under  shadow  of  the  dusk  without  being 


214 


life’s  little  ironies 


perceived,  and  might  have  forgotten  the  appointment 
at  the  bench. 

“  ‘ All  in  ?’  asked  James. 

“‘All  but  one  boat,’  said  the  lessor.  ‘I  can’t  think 
where  that  couple  is  keeping  to.  They  might  run  foul 
of  something  or  other  in  the  dark.’ 

“Again  Stephen’s  wife  and  Olive’s  husband  waited, 
with  more  and  more  anxiety.  But  no  little  yellow 
boat  returned.  Was  it  possible  they  could  have  land¬ 
ed  farther  down  the  Esplanade  ? 

“‘It  may  have  been  done  to  escape  paying,’  said 
the  boat-owner.  ‘  But  they  didn’t  look  like  people 
who  would  do  that.’ 

“James  Hardcome  knew  that  he  could  found  no 
hope  on  such  a  reason  as  that.  But  now,  remember¬ 
ing  what  had  been  casually  discussed  between  Steve 
and  himself  about  their  wives  from  time  to  time,  he 
admitted  for  the  first  time  the  possibility  that  their 
old  tenderness  had  been  revived  by  their  face-to-face 
position  more  strongly  than  either  had  anticipated  at 
starting — the  excursion  having  been  so  obviously  un¬ 
dertaken  for  the  pleasure  of  the  performance  only — 
and  that  they  had  landed  at  some  steps  he  knew  of 
farther  down  towards  the  pier,  to  be  longer  alone 
together. 

“  Still  he  disliked  to  harbor  the  thought,  and  would 
not  mention  its  existence  to  his  companion.  He  merely 
said  to  her,  ‘  Let  us  walk  farther  on.’ 

“  They  did  so,  and  lingered  between  the  boat-stage 
and  the  pier  till  Stephen  Hardcome’s  wife  was  uneasy, 
and  was  obliged  to  accept  James’s  offered  arm.  Thus 
the  night  advanced.  Emily  was  presently  so  worn  out 
by  fatigue  that  James  felt  it  necessary  to  conduct  her 
home  ;  there  was,  too,  a  remote  chance  that  the  truants 
had  landed  in  the  harbor  on  the  other  side  of  the  town, 
or  elsewhere,  and  hastened  home  in  some  unexpected 


THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  HARDCOMES 


215 


way,  in  the  belief  that  their  spouses  would  not  have 
waited  so  long. 

“However,  he  left  a  direction  in  the  town  that  a 
lookout  should  be  kept,  though  this  was  arranged 
privately,  the  bare  possibility  of  an  elopement  being 
enough  to  make  him  reticent  ;  and,  full  of  misgivings, 
the  two  remaining  ones  hastened  to  catch  the  last  train 
out  of  Budmouth-Regis  ;  and  when  they  got  to  Castel- 
bridge  drove  back  to  Upper  Longpuddle.” 

“  Along  this  very  road  as  we  do  now,”  remarked  the 
parish -clerk. 

“  To  be  sure — along  this  very  road,”  said  the  cu¬ 
rate.  “  However,  Stephen  and  Olive  were  not  at  their 
homes  ;  neither  had  entered  the  village  since  leaving  it 
in  the  morning.  Emily  and  James  Hardcome  went  to 
their  respective  dwellings  to  snatch  a  hasty  night’s 
rest,  and  at  daylight  the  next  morning  they  drove 
again  to  Casterbridge  and  entered  the  Budmouth  train. 

“Nothing  had  been  heard  of  the  couple  there  dur¬ 
ing  this  brief  absence.  In  the  course  of  a  few  hours 
some  young  men  testified  to  having  seen  such  a  man 
and  woman  rowing  in  a  frail  hired  craft,  the  head  of 
the  boat  kept  straight  to  sea;  they  had  sat  looking  in 
each  other’s  face  as  if  they  were  in  a  dream,  with  no 
consciousness  of  what  they  were  doing,  or  whither 
they  were  steering.  It  was  not  till  late  that  day  that 
more  tidings  reached  James’s  ears.  The  boat  had 
been  found  drifting  bottom  upward  a  long  way  from 
land.  In  the  evening  the  sea  rose  somewhat,  and  a  cry 
spread  through  the  town  that  two  bodies  were  cast 
ashore  in  Lullstead  Bay,  several  miles  to  the  east¬ 
ward.  They7  were  brought  to  Budmouth,  and  inspec¬ 
tion  revealed  them  to  be  the  missing  pair.  It  was  said 
that  they  had  been  found  tightly  locked  in  each 
other’s  arms,  his  lips  upon  hers,  their  features  still 
wrapt  in  the  same  calm  and  dream-like  repose  which 


life’s  little  ironies 


m 

had  been  observed  in  tlieir  demeanor  as  they  had 
glided  along. 

“Neither  James  nor  Emily  questioned  the  original 
motives  of  the  unfortunate  man  and  woman  in  put¬ 
ting  to  sea.  They  were  both  above  suspicion  as  to  in¬ 
tention.  Whatever  their  mutual  feelings  might  have 
led  them  on  to,  underhand  behavior  was  foreign  to  the 
nature  of  either.  Conjecture  pictured  that  they  might 
have  fallen  into  tender  reverie  while  gazing  each  into 
a  pair  of  eyes  that  had  formerly  flashed  for  him  and 
her  alone,  and,  unwilling  to  avow  what  their  mutual 
sentiments  were,  they  had  continued  thus,  oblivious  of 
time  and  space,  till  darkness  suddenly  overtook  them 
far  from  land.  But  nothing  was  truly  known.  It  had 
been  their  destiny  to  die  thus.  The  two  halves,  in¬ 
tended  by  Nature  to  make  the  perfect  whole,  had  failed 
in  that  result  during  their  lives,  though  4  in  their  death 
they  were  not  divided.’  Their  bodies  were  brought 
home,  and  buried  on  one  day.  I  remember  that,  on 
looking  round  the  church-yard  while  reading  the  ser¬ 
vice,  I  observed  nearly  all  the  parish  at  their  funeral.” 

44  It  was  so,  sir,”  said  the  clerk. 

44  The  remaining  two,”  continued  the  curate  (whose 
voice  had  grown  husky  while  relating  the  lovers’  sad 
fate),  “were  a  more  thoughtful  and  far-seeing,  though 
less  romantic,  couple  than  the  first.  They  were  now 
mutually  bereft  of  a  companion,  and  found  themselves 
by  this  accident  in  a  position  to  fulfil  their  destiny 
according  to  Nature’s  plan  and  their  own  original 
and  calmly-formed  intention.  James  Hardcome  took 
Emily  to  wife  in  the  course  of  a  year  and  a  half ;  and 
the  marriage  proved  in  every  respect  a  happy  one.  I 
solemnized  the  service,  Hardcome  having  told  me, 
when  he  came  to  give  notice  of  the  proposed  wedding, 
the  story  of  his  first  wife’s  loss  almost  word  for  word 
as  I  have  told  it  to  you.” 


THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  HAEDCOMES 


217 


“And  are  they  living  in  Longpuddle  still?”  asked 
the  new-comer. 

“  Oh  no,  sir,”  interposed  the  clerk.  “James  has  been 
dead  these  dozen  years,  and  his  mis’ess  about  six  or 
seven.  They  had  no  children.  William  Privett  used 
to  be  their  odd  man  till  he  died.” 

“Ah — William  Privett !  He,  dead  too? — dear  me  !” 
said  the  other.  “All  passed  away  !” 

“Yes,  sir.  William  was  much  older  than  I.  He’d 
ha’  been  over  eighty  if  he  had  lived  till  now.” 

“  There  was  something  very  strange  about  William’s 
death — -very  strange  indeed  !”  sighed  a  melancholy  man 
in  the  back  of  the  van.  It  was  the  seedsman’s  father, 
who  had  hitherto  kept  silence. 

“And  what  might  that  have  been?”  asked  Mr.  Lack¬ 
land. 


THE  SUPERSTITIOUS  MAN’S  STORY 


“William,  as  you  may  know,  was  a  curious,  silent 
man  ;  you  could  feel  when  he  came  near  ye  ;  and  if  he 
was  in  the  house  or  anywhere  behind  your  back  with¬ 
out  your  seeing  him,  there  seemed  to  be  something 
clammy  in  the  air,  as  if  a  cellar  door  was  opened  close 
by  your  elbow.  Well,  one  Sunday,  at  a  time  that 
William  was  in  very  good  health  to  all  appearance, 
the  bell  that  was  ringing  for  church  went  very  heavy 
all  of  a  sudden ;  the  sexton,  who  told  me  o’t,  said  he’d 
not  known  the  bell  go  so  heavy  in  his  hand  for  years — it 
was  just  as  if  the  gudgeons  wanted  oiling.  That  was  on 
the  Sunday,  as  I  say.  During  the  week  after,  it  chanced 
that  William’s  wife  was  staying  up  late  one  night  to 
finish  her  ironing,  she  doing  the  washing  for  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Hardcome.  Her  husband  had  finished  his 
supper  and  gone  to  bed  as  usual  some  hour  or  two  be¬ 
fore.  While  she  ironed  she  heard  him  coming  down¬ 
stairs  ;  he  stopped  to  put  on  his  boots  at  the  stair-foot, 
where  he  always  left  them,  and  then  came  on  into  the 
living-room  where  she  was  ironing,  passing  through  it 
towards  the  door,  this  being  the  only  way  from  the 
staircase  to  the  outside  of  the  house.  No  word  was 
said  on  either  side,  William  not  being  a  man  given  to 
much  speaking,  and  his  wife  being  occupied  with  her 
work.  He  went  out  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 
As  her  husband  had  now  and  then  gone  out  in  this  way 
at  night  before  when  unwell,  or  unable  to  sleep  for 
want  of  a  pipe,  she  took  no  particular  notice,  and  con¬ 
tinued  at  her  ironing.  This  she  finished  shortly  after, 


THE  SUPERSTITIOUS  MAN’S  STORY 


219 


and  as  he  had  not  come  in  she  waited  awhile  for  him, 
putting  away  the  irons  and  things,  and  preparing  the 
table  for  his  breakfast  in  the  morning.  Still  he  did  not 
return,  but  supposing  him  not  far  off,  and  wanting  to 
get  to  bed  herself,  tired  as  she  was,  she  left  the  door 
unbarred  and  went  to  the  stairs,  after  writing  on  the 
back  of  the  door  with  chalk:  Mind  and  do  the,  door 
(because  he  was  a  forgetful  man). 

“  To  her  great  surprise,  I  might  say  alarm,  on  reach¬ 
ing  the  foot  of  the  stairs  his  boots  were  standing  there 
as  they  always  stood  when  he  had  gone  to  rest ;  going 
up  to  their  chamber  she  found  him  in  bed  sleeping  as 
sound  as  a  rock.  How  he  could  have  got  back  again 
without  her  seeing  or  hearing  him  was  beyond  her 
comprehension.  It  could  only  have  been  by  passing 
behind  her  very  quietly  while  she  was  bumping  with 
the  iron.  But  this  notion  did  not  satisfy  her ;  it  was 
surely  impossible  that  she  should  not  have  seen  him 
come  in  through  a  room  so  small.  She  could  not  un¬ 
ravel  the  mystery,  and  felt  very  queer  and  uncom¬ 
fortable  about  it.  However,  she  would  not  disturb 
him  to  question  him  then,  and  went  to  bed  herself. 

“  He  rose  and  left  for  his  work  very  early  the  next 
morning,  before  she  was  awake,  and  she  waited  his 
return  to  breakfast  with  much  anxiety  for  an  expla¬ 
nation,  for  thinking  over  the  matter  by  daylight  made 
it  seem  only  the  more  startling.  When  he  came  in 
to  the  meal  he  said,  before  she  could  put  her  question, 
“  What’s  the  meaning  of  them  words  chalked  on  the 
door  ?” 

“  She  told  him,  and  asked  him  about  his  going  out 
the  night  before.  William  declared  that  he  had  never 
left  the  bedroom  after  entering  it,  having  in  fact  un¬ 
dressed,  lain  down,  and  fallen  asleep  directly,  never 
once  waking  till  the  clock  struck  five,  and  he  rose  up 
to  go  to  his  labor. 


m 


life’s  little  ironies 


“  Betty  Privett  was  as  certain  in  her  own  mind 
that  he  did  go  out  as  she  was  of  her  own  existence, 
and  was  little  less  certain  that  he  did  not  return.  She 
felt  too  disturbed  to  argue  with  him,  and  let  the  sub¬ 
ject  drop  as  though  she  must  have  been  mistaken. 
When  she  was  walking  down  Longpuddle  Street,  later 
in  the  day,  she  met  Jim  Weedle’s  daughter  Nancy, 
and  said,  ‘  Well,  Nancy,  you  do  look  sleepy  to-day  !’ 

“‘Yes,  Mrs.  Privett,”  says  Nancy.  “Now  don’t 
tell  anybody,  but  I  don’t  mind  letting  you  know  what 
the  reason  o’t  is.  Last  night  being  Old  Midsummer 
Eve,  some  of  us  went  to  church  porch,  and  didn’t  get 
home  till  near  one.’ 

“‘Did  ye?’  says  Mrs.  Privett.  ‘Old  Midsummer 
yesterday,  was  it  ?  Faith,  I  didn’t  think  whe’r  ’twas 
Midsummer  or  Michaelmas;  Pd  too  much  work  to  do.’ 

“  ‘  Yes.  And  we  were  frightened  enough,  I  can  tell 
’ee,  by  what  we  saw.’ 

“  ‘  What  did  ye  see  ?’ 

(“You  may  not  remember,  sir,  having  gone  off  to 
foreign  parts  so  young,  that  on  Midsummer  Night  it 
is  believed  hereabout  that  the  faint  shapes  of  all  the 
folk  in  the  parish  who  are  going  to  be  at  death’s  door 
within  the  year  can  be  seen  entering  the  church. 
Those  who  get  over  their  illness  come  out  again  after 
a  while  ;  those  that  are  doomed  to  die  do  not  return.) 

“  ‘  What  did  you  see  ?’  asked  William’s  wife. 

“  ‘  Well,’  says  Nancy,  backwardly — ‘  we  needn’t  tell 
what  we  saw,  or  who  we  saw.’ 

“‘You  saw  my  husband,’  says  Betty  Privett,  in  a 
quiet  way. 

‘“Well,  since  you  put  it  so,’  says  Nancy,  hanging 
fire,  ‘  we — thought  we  did  see  him ;  but  it  was  dark¬ 
ish,  and  we  was  frightened,  and  of  course  it  might  not 
iiave  been  he.’ 

“  ‘  Nancy,  you  needn’t  mind  letting  it  out,  though 


THE  SUPERSTITIOUS  MAN’S  STORY 


221 


’tis  kept  back  in  kindness.  And  he  didn’t  come  out 
of  church  again  ;  I  know  it  as  well  as  you.’ 

“  Nancy  did  not  answer  yes  or  no  to  that,  and  no 
more  was  said.  But  three  days  after,  William  Privett 
was  mowing  with  John  Chiles  in  Mr.  Hardcome’s 
meadow,  and  in  the  heat  of  the  day  they  sat  down  to 
eat  their  bit  o’  lunch  under  a  tree,  and  empty  their 
flagon.  Afterwards  both  of  ’em  fell  asleep  as  they 
sat.  John  Chiles  was  the  first  to  wake,  and  as  he 
looked  towards  his  fellow-mower  he  saw  one  of  those 
great  white  miller’s-souls  as  we  call  ’em — that  is  to 
say,  a  miller-moth — come  from  William’s  open  mouth 
while  he  slept,  and  fly  straight  away.  John  thought 
it  odd  enough,  as  William  had  worked  in  a  mill  for 
several  years  when  he  was  a  boy.  He  then  looked  at 
the  sun,  and  found  by  the  place  o’t  that  they  had 
slept  a  long  while,  and  as  William  did  not  wake,  John 
called  to  him  and  said  it  was  high  time  to  begin  work 
again.  He  took  no  notice,  and  then  John  went  up 
and  shook  him,  and  found  he  was  dead. 

“Now  on  that  very  day  old  Philip  Hookhorn  was 
down  at  Longpuddle  Spring  dipping  up  a  pitcher  of 
water  ;  and  as  he  turned  away,  who  should  he  see 
coming  down  to  the  spring  on  the  other  side  but  Will¬ 
iam,  looking  very  pale  and  odd.  This  surprised  Philip 
Hookhorn  very  much,  for  years  before  that  time  Will¬ 
iam’s  little  son — his  only  child — had  been  drowned  in 
that  spring  while  at  play  there,  and  this  had  so  preyed 
upon  William’s  mind  that  he’d  never  been  seen  near 
the  spring  afterwards,  and  had  been  known  to  go  half 
a  mile  out  of  his  way  to  avoid  the  place.  On  inquiry, 
it  was  found  that  William  in  body  could  not  have 
stood  by  the  spring,  being  in  the  mead  two  miles 
off  ;  and  it  also  came  out  that  the  time  at  which  he 
was  seen  at  the  spring  was  the  very  time  when  he 
died.” 


222 


life’s  little  ironies 


“  A  rather  melancholy  story,”  observed  the  emigrant 
after  a  minute’s  silence. 

“  Yes,  yes.  Well,  we  must  take  ups  and  downs 
together,”  said  the  seedsman’s  father. 

“  You  don’t  know,  Mr.  Lackland,  I  suppose,  what  a 
rum  start  that  was  between  Andrey  Satchel  and  Jane 
Vallens  and  the  pa’son  and  clerk  o’  Scrimpton  ?”  said 
the  master-thateher,  a  man  with  a  spark  of  subdued 
liveliness  in  his  eye,  who  had  hitherto  kept  his  atten¬ 
tion  mainly  upon  small  objects  a  long  way  ahead, 
as  he  sat  in  front  of  the  van  with  his  feet  outside. 
“Theirs  was  a  queerer  experience  of  a  pa’son  and 
clerk  than  some  folks  get,  and  may  cheer ’ee  up  a  little 
after  this  dampness  that’s  been  flung  over  yer  soul. 

The  returned  one  replied  that  he  knew  nothing  of 
the  history,  and  should  be  happy  to  hear  it,  quite  rec¬ 
ollecting  the  personality  of  the  man  Satchel. 

“Ah,  no  ;  this  Andrey  Satchel  is  the  son  of  the 
Satchel  that  you  knew  ;  this  one  has  not  been  married 
more  than  two  or  three  years,  and  ’twas  at  the  time  o’ 
the  wedding  that  the  accident  happened  that  I  could 
tell  ’ee  of,  or  anybody  else  here,  for  that  matter.” 

“No,  no;  you  must  tell  it,  neighbor,  if  anybody,” 
said  several;  a  request  in  which  Mr.  Lackland  joined, 
adding  that  the  Satchel  family  was  one  he  had  known 
well  before  leaving  home. 

“I’ll  just  mention,  as  you  be  a  stranger,”  whispered 
the  carrier  to  Lackland,  “  that  Christopher’s  stories  will 
bear  pruning.” 

The  emigrant  nodded. 

“Well,  I  can  soon  tell  it,”  said  the  master-thateher, 
schooling  himself  to  a  tone  of  actuality.  “  Though  as 
it  has  more  to  do  with  the  pa’son  and  clerk  than  with 
Andrey  himself,  it  ought  to  be  told  by  a  better  church¬ 
man  than  I.” 


ANDREY  SATCHEL  AND  THE  PARSON  AND 

CLERK 


“  It  all  arose,  you  must  know,  from  Audrey  being 
fond  of  a  drop  of  drink  at  that  time — though  he’s  a 
sober  enough  man  now  by  all  account,  so  much  the 
better  for  him.  Jane,  his  bride,  you  see,  was  some¬ 
what  older  than  Andrey;  how  much  older  I  don’t  pre¬ 
tend  to  say;  she  was  not  one  of  our  parish,  and  the  reg¬ 
ister  alone  may  be  able  to  tell  that.  But,  at  any  rate, 
her  being  a  little  ahead  of  her  young  man  in  mortal 
„  years,  coupled  with  other  bodily  circumstances — ” 

(“  Ah,  poor  thing  !”  sighed  the  women.) 

“ — made  her  very  anxious  to  get  the  thing  done 
before  he  changed  his  mind;  and  ’twas  with  a  joyful 
countenance  (they  say)  that  she,  with  Andrey  and  his 
brother  and  sister-in-law,  marched  off  to  church  one 
November  morning  as  soon  as  ’twas  day  a’most,  to  be 
made  one  with  Andrey  for  the  rest  of  her  life.  He  had 
left  our  place  long  before  it  was  light,  and  the  folks 
that  were  up  all  waved  their  lanterns  at  him,  and  flung 
up  their  hats  as  he  went. 

“  The  church  of  her  parish  was  a  mile  and  more 
from  the  houses,  and,  as  it  was  a  wonderful  fine  day  for 
the  time  of  year,  the  plan  was  that  as  soon  as  they 
were  married  they  would  make  out  a  holiday  by  driv¬ 
ing  straight  off  to  Port  Bredy,  to  see  the  ships  and  the 
sea  and  the  sojers,  instead  of  coming  back  to  a  meal 
at  the  house  of  the  distant  relation  she  lived  wi’,  and 
moping  about  there  all  the  afternoon. 


224 


life’s  little  ironies 


“  Well,  some  folks  noticed  that  Audrey  walked  with 
rather  wambling  steps  to  church  that  morning ;  the 
truth  o’t  was  that  his  nearest  neighbor’s  child  had 
been  christened  the  day  before,  and  Andrey,  having 
stood  godfather,  had  stayed  all  night  keeping  up  the 
christening,  for  he  had  said  to  himself,  ‘Not  if  I  live 
to  be  a  thousand  shall  I  again  be  made  a  godfather 
one  day  and  a  husband  the  next  and  perhaps  a  father 
the  next,  and  therefore  I’ll  make  the  most  of  the  bless¬ 
ing.’  So  that  when  he  started  from  home  in  the  morn¬ 
ing  he  had  not  been  in  bed  at  all.  The  result  was,  as 
I  say,  that  when  he  and  his  bride-to-be  walked  up  the 
church  to  get  married,  the  pa’son  (who  was  a  very 
strict  man  inside  the  church,  whatever  he  was  outside) 
looked  hard  at  Andrey,  and  said,  very  sharp : 

“  ‘  How’s  this,  my  man  ?  You  are  in  liquor.  And 
so  early,  too.  I’m  ashamed  of  you  !’ 

“‘Well,  that’s  true,  sir,’  says  Andrey.  ‘But  I  can 
walk  straight  enough  for  practical  purposes.  I  can 
walk  a  chalk-line,’  he  says  (meaning  no  offence),  ‘as 
well  as  some  other  folk  :  and  ’ —  (getting  hotter) — ‘  I 
reckon  that  if  you,  Pa’son  Billy  Toogood,  had  kept  up 
a  christening  all  night  so  thoroughly  as  I  have  done, 
you  wouldn’t  be  able  to  stand  at  all ;  damn  me  if  you 
would !’ 

“  This  answer  made  Pa’son  Billy — as  they  used  to 
call  him — rather  spitish,  not  to  say  hot,  for  he  was  a 
warm  -  tempered  man  if  provoked,  and  he  said,  very 
decidedly:  ‘Well,  I  cannot  marry  you  in  this  state  ; 
and  I  will  not  !  Go  home  and  get  sober !’  And  he 
slapped  the  book  together  like  a  rat-trap. 

“  Then  the  bride  burst  out  crying  as  if  her  heart 
would  break,  for  very  fear  that  she  would  lose  An¬ 
drey  after  all  her  hard  work  to  get  him,  and  begged 
and  implored  the  pa’son  to  go  on  with  the  ceremony. 
But  no. 


ANDREY  SATCHEL  AND  THE  PARSON  AND  CLERK  225 


“  ‘  I  won’t  be  a  party  to  your  solemnizing  matri¬ 
mony  with  a  tipsy  man,’  says  Mr.  Toogood.  4  It  is 
not  right  and  decent.  I  am  sorry  for  you,  my  young 
woman,  but  you’d  better  go  home  again.  I  wonder 
how  you  could  think  of  bringing  him  here  drunk  like 
this.’ 

44  4  But  if — if  he  don’t  come  drunk  he  won’t  come  at 
all,  sir  !’  she  says,  through  her  sobs. 

44 4 1  can’t  help  that,’  says  the  pa’son ;  and  plead  as 
she  might,  it  did  not  move  him.  Then  she  tried  him 
another  way. 

“‘Well,  then,  if  you’ll  go  home,  sir,  and  leave  us 
here,  and  come  back  to  the  church  in  an  hour  or  two, 
I’ll  undertake  to  say  that  he  shall  be  as  sober  as  a 
judge,’  she  cries.  4  We’ll  bide  here,  with  your  per¬ 
mission  ;  for  if  he  once  goes  out  of  this  here  church 
unmarried,  all  Van  Amburgh’s  horses  won’t  drag  him 
back  again  !’ 

44  4  Very  well,’  says  the  pa’son.  4  I’ll  give  you  two 
hours,  and  then  I’ll  return.’ 

44  4  And  please,  sir,  lock  the  door,  so  that  we  can’t 
escape !’  says  she. 

44  4  Yes,’  says  the  pa’son. 

44  4  And  let  nobody  know  that  we  are  here.’ 

44  The  pa’son  then  took  off  his  clane  white  surplice, 
and  went  away;  and  the  others  consulted  upon  the 
best  means  for  keeping  the  matter  a  secret,  which  it 
was  not  a  very  hard  thing  to  do,  the  place  being  so 
lonely,  and  the  hour  so  early.  The  witnesses — An- 
drey’s  brother  and  brother’s  wife,  neither  one  o’  which 
cared  about  Andrey’s  marrying  Jane,  and  had  come 
rather  against  their  will — said  they  couldn’t  wait  two 
hours  in  that  hole  of  a  place,  wishing  to  get  home 
to  Longpuddle  before  dinner-time.  They  were  alto¬ 
gether  so  crusty  that  the  clerk  said  there  was  no  dif¬ 
ficulty  in  their  doing  as  they  wished.  They  could  go 
15 


226 


life’s  little  ironies 


home  as  if  their  brother’s  wedding  had  actually  taken 
place,  and  the  married  couple  had  gone  onward  for 
their  day’s  pleasure  jaunt  to  Port  Bredy  as  intended. 
He,  the  clerk,  and  any  casual  passer-by  would  act  as 
witnesses  when  the  pa’son  came  back. 

“  This  was  agreed  to,  and  away  Audrey’s  relations 
went,  nothing  loath,  and  the  clerk  shut  the  church 
door  and  prepared  to  lock  in  the  couple.  The  bride 
went  up  and  whispered  to  him,  with  her  eyes  a-stream- 
ing  still. 

“‘My  dear  good  clerk,’  she  says,  ‘if  we  bide  here 
in  the  church,  folk  may  see  us  through  the  winders, 
and  find  out  what  has  happened;  and  ’twould  cause 
such  a  talk  and  scandal  that  I  never  should  get  over 
it  ;  and  perhaps,  too,  dear  Andrey  might  try  to  get 
out  and  leave  me  !  Will  ye  lock  us  up  in  the  tower, 
my  dear  good  clerk?’  she  says.  ‘I’ll  tole  him  in  there 
if  you  wfil.’ 

“  The  clerk  had  no  objection  to  do  this  to  oblige  the 
poor  young  woman,  and  they  toled  Andrey  into  the 
tower,  and  the  clerk  locked  ’em  both  up  straightway, 
and  then  went  home,  to  return  at  the  end  of  the  two 
hours. 

“  Pa’son  Toosrood  had  not  been  Ion"  in  his  house 

o  o 

after  leaving  the  church  when  he  saw  a  gentleman  in 
pink  and  top-boots  ride  past  his  windows,  and  with  a 
sudden  flash  of  heat  he  called  to  mind  that  the  hounds 
met  that  day  just  on  the  edge  of  his  parish.  The 
pa’son  was  one  who  dearly  loved  sport,  and  much  he 
longed  to  be  there. 

“  In  short,  except  o’  Sundays  and  at  tide-times  in 
the  week,  Pa’son  Billy  was  the  life  o’  the  hunt.  ’Tis 
true  that  he  was  poor,  and  that  he  rode  all  of  a  heap, 
and  that  his  black  mare  was  rat-tailed  and  old,  and 
his  tops  older,  and  all  over  of  one  color,  whity-brown, 
and  full  o’  cracks.  But  he’d  been  in  at  the  death  of 


ANDREY  SATCHEL  AND  THE  PARSON  AND  CLERK  227 


three  thousand  foxes.  And — being  a  bachelor  man — 
every  time  he  went  to  bed  in  summer  he  used  to  open 
the  bed  at  bottom  and  crawl  up  head-foremost,  to 
mind  en  of  the  coming  winter  and  the  good  sport  he’d 
have,  and  the  foxes  going  to  earth.  And  whenever 
there  was  a  christening  at  the  squire’s,  and  he  had  din¬ 
ner  there  afterwards,  as  he  always  did,  he  never  failed 
to  christen  the  chiel  over  again  in  a  bottle  of  port-wine. 

“Now  the  clerk  was  the  pa’son’s  groom  and  gar¬ 
dener  and  jineral  manager,  and  had  just  got  back  to 
his  work  in  the  garden  when  he,  too,  saw  the  hunting 
man  pass,  and  presently  saw  lots  more  of  ’em,  noble¬ 
men  and  gentry,  and  then  he  saw  the  hounds,  the 
huntsman,  Jim  Treadhedge,  the  whipper-in,  and  I 
don’t  know  who  besides.  The  clerk  loved  going  to 
cover  as  frantical  as  the  pa’son,  so  much  so  that,  when¬ 
ever  he  saw  or  heard  the  pack,  he  could  no  more  rule 
his  feelings  than  if  they  were  the  winds  of  heaven. 
He  might  be  bedding,  or  he  might  be  sowing — all  was 
forgot.  So  he  throws  down  his  spade  and  rushes  in 
to  the  pa’son,  who  was  by  this  time  as  frantical  to  go 
as  he. 

“ ‘  That  there  mare  of  yours,  sir,  do  want  exercise 
bad,  very  bad,  this  morning  !’  the  clerk  says,  all  of  a 
tremble.  ‘Don’t  ye  think  I’d  better  trot  her  round 
the  downs  for  an  hour,  sir?’ 

“‘To  be  sure,  she  does  want  exercise  badly.  I’ll 
trot  her  round  myself,’  says  the  pa’son. 

“  ‘  Oh  ! — you’ll  trot  her  yerself  ?  Well,  there’s  the 
cob,  sir.  Really  that  cob  is  getting  oncontrollable 
through  biding  in  a  stable  so  long !  If  you  wouldn’t 
mind  my  putting  on  the  saddle — ’ 

“‘Very  well.  Take  him  out,  certainly,’  says  the 
pa’son,  never  caring  what  the  clerk  did  so  long  as  he 
himself  could  get  off  immediately.  So,  scrambling 
into  his  riding-boots  and  breeches  as  quick  as  he  could, 


228 


life’s  little  ironies 


0 

he  rode  off  towards  the  meet,  intending  to  be  back 
in  an  hour.  No  sooner  was  he  gone  than  the  clerk 
mounted  the  cob,  and  was  off  after  him.  When  the 
pa’son  got  to  the  meet,  he  found  a  lot  of  friends,  and 
was  as  jolly  as  he  could  be;  the  hounds  found  a’most 
as  soon  as  they  threw  off,  and  there  was  great  excite¬ 
ment.  So,  forgetting  that  he  had  meant  to  go  back  at 
once,  away  rides  the  pa’son  with  the  rest  o’  the  hunt, 
all  across  the  fallow  ground  that  lies  between  Lippet 
Wood  and  Green’s  Copse;  and  as  he  galloped  he  looked 
1  behind  for  a  moment,  and  there  was  the  clerk  close  to 
his  heels. 

“  ‘  Ha,  ha,  clerk — you  here  ?’  he  says. 

“  ‘Yes,  sir,  here  be  I,’  says  t’other. 

“  ‘  Fine  exercise  for  the  horses  !’ 

“‘Aye,  sir — hee,  hee!’  says  the  clerk. 

“  So  they  went  on  and  on,  into  Green’s  Copse,  then 
across  to  Higher  Jirton;  then  on  across  this  very  turn¬ 
pike  road  to  Climmerston  Ridge,  then  away  towards 
Yalbury  Wood;  up  hill  and  down  dale,  like  the  very 
wind,  the  clerk  close  to  the  pa’son,  and  the  pa’son  not 
far  from  the  hounds.  Never  was  there  a  finer  run 
knowed  with  that  pack  than  they  had  that  day;  and 
neither  pa’son  nor  clerk  thought  one  word  about  the 
unmarried  couple  locked  up  in  the  church-tower  wait¬ 
ing  to  get  j’ined. 

“  ‘  These  bosses  of  yours,  sir,  will  be  much  improved 
by  this,’  says  the  clerk  as  he  rode  along,  just  a  neck 
behind  the  pa’son.  ‘  ’Twas  a  happy  thought  of  your 
reverent  mind  to  bring  ’em  out  to-day.  Why,  it  may 
be  frosty  in  a  day  or  two,  and  then  the  poor  things 
mid  not  be  able  to  leave  the  stable  for  weeks.’ 

“  ‘They  may  not,  they  may  not,  it  is  true.  A  mer¬ 
ciful  man  is  merciful  to  his  beast,’  says  the  pa’son. 

“  ‘  Hee,  hee !’  says  the  clerk,  glancing  sly  into  the 
pa’son’s  eye. 


ANDREY  SATCHEL  AND  THE  PARSON  AND  CLERK  229 


44 4  Ha,  ha!’  says  the  pa’son,  a-glancing  back  into  the 
clerk’s.  ‘Halloo!’  he  shouts,  as  he  sees  the  fox  break 
cover  at  that  moment. 

“  4  Halloo !’  cries  the  clerk.  4  There  he  goes !  Why, 
clammy,  there’s  two  foxes — ’ 

44  4  Hush,  clerk,  hush!  Don’t  let  me  hear  that  word 
again!  Remember  our  calling.’ 

44  4  True,  sir,  true.  But  really,  good  sport  do  carry 
away  a  man  so  that  he’s  apt  to  forget  his  high  persua¬ 
sion!’  And  the  next  minute  the  corner  of  the  clerk’s 
eye  shot  again  into  the  corner  of  the  pa’son’s,  and  the 
pa’son’s  back  again  to  the  clerk’s.  4Hee,  hee!’  said 
the  clerk. 

44  4  Ha,  ha!’  said  Pa’son  Toogood. 

44  4  Ah,  sir,’  says  the  clerk  again,  4  this  is  better  than 
crying  Amen  to  your  Ever-and-ever  on  a  winter’s  morn¬ 
ing!’ 

44  4  Yes,  indeed,  clerk!  To  everything  there’s  a  sea¬ 
son,’  says  Pa’son  Toogood,  quite  pat,  for  he  was  a 
learned  Christian  man  when  he  liked,  and  had  chap¬ 
ter  and  ve’se  at  his  tongue’s  end,  as  a  pa’son  should. 

44  At  last,  late  in  the  day,  the  hunting  came  to  an 
end  by  the  fox  running  into  a’  old  woman’s  cottage, 
under  her  table,  and  up  the  clock-case.  The  pa’son  and 
clerk  were  among  the  first  in  at  the  death,  their  faces 
a-staring  in  at  the  old  woman’s  winder,  and  the  clock 
striking  as  he’d  never  been  heard  to  strik’  before. 
Then  came  the  question  of  finding  their  way  home. 

“Neither  the  pa’son  nor  the  clerk  knowed  how  they 
were  going  to  do  this,  for  their  beasts  were  wellnigh 
tired  down  to  the  ground.  But  they  started  back 
along  as  well  as  they  could,  though  they  were  so  done 
up  that  they  could  only  drag  along  at  a’  amble,  and 
not  much  of  that  at  a  time. 

44  4  We  shall  never,  never  get  there!’  groaned  Mr. 
Toogood,  quite  bowed  down. 


230 


life’s  little  ironies 


“  ‘  Never!’  groans  the  clerk.  ‘  ’Tis  a  judgment  upon 
ns  for  our  iniquities!’ 

“  ‘I  fear  it  is,’  murmurs  the  pa’son. 

“Well,  ’twas  quite  dark  afore  they  entered  the 
pa’sonage  gate,  having  crept  into  the  parish  as  quiet 
as  if  they’d  stole  a  hammer,  little  wishing  their  con¬ 
gregation  to  know  what  they’d  been  up  to  all  day 
long.  And  as  they  were  so  dog-tired,  and  so  anxious 
about  the  horses,  never  once  did  they  think  of  the  un¬ 
married  couple.  As  soon  as  ever  the  horses  had  been 
stabled  and  fed,  and  the  pa’son  and  clerk  had  had  a 
bit  and  a  sup  theirselves,  they  went  to  bed. 

“  Next  morning  when  Pa’son  Toogood  was  at  break¬ 
fast,  thinking  of  the  glorious  sport  he’d  had  the  day 
before,  the  clerk  came  in  a  hurry  to  the  door  and  asked 
to  see  him. 

“‘It  has  just  come  into  my  mind,  sir,  that  we’ve 
forgot  all  about  the  couple  that  we  was  to  have  mar¬ 
ried  yesterday  !’ 

“  The  half-chawed  victuals  dropped  from  the  pa’son’s 
mouth  as  if  he’d  been  shot.  ‘  Bless  my  soul,’  says  he, 
‘so  we  have  !  How  very  awkward  !’ 

“  ‘  It  is,  sir ;  very.  Perhaps  we’ve  ruined  the 
’ooman!’ 

“‘Ah  —  to  be  sure  —  I  remember!  She  ought  to 
have  been  married  before.’ 

“  ‘  If  anything  has  happened  to  her  up  in  that  there 
tower,  and  no  doctor  or  nuss — ’ 

(“Ah — poor  thing!”  sighed  the  women.) 

“  ‘  — ’twill  be  a  quarter-sessions  matter  for  us,  not 
to  speak  of  the  disgrace  to  the  Church  !’ 

“‘Good  God,  clerk,  don’t  drive  me  wild!’  says  the 
pa’son.  ‘  Why  the  hell  didn’t  I  marry  ’em,  drunk  or 
sober !’  (Pa’sons  used  to  cuss  in  them  days  like  plain 
honest  men.)  ‘Have  you  been  to  the  church  to  see 
what  happened  to  them,  or  inquired  in  the  village  ?’ 


ANDREY  SATCHEL  AND  THE  PARSON  AND  CLERK  281 


44  ‘Not  I,  sir !  It  only  came  into  my  head  a  moment 
ago,  and  I  always  like  to  he  second  to  you  in  Church 
matters.  You  could  have  knocked  me  down  with  a 
sparrer’s  feather  when  I  thought  o’t,  sir  ;  I  assure  ’ee 
you  could  !’ 

“Well,  the  pa’son  jumped  up  from  his  breakfast, 
and  together  they  went  off  to  the  church. 

“  ‘  It  is  not  at  all  likely  that  they  are  there  now,’ 
says  Mr.  Toogood,  as  they  went  ;  4  and  indeed  I  hope 
they  are  not.  They  be  pretty  sure  to  have  ’scaped 
and  gone  homed 

“However,  they  opened  the  church -hatch,  entered 
the  church- yard,  and,  looking  up  at  the  tower,  there 
they  seed  a  little  small  white  face  at  the  belfry 
winder,  and  a  little  small  hand  waving.  ’Twas  the 
bride. 

“ 4  God  my  life,  clerk,’  says  Mr.  Toogood,  4 1  don’t 
know  how  to  face  ’em  !’  And  he  sank  down  upon  a 
tombstone.  4  How  I  wish  I  hadn’t  been  so  cussed 
particular  !’ 

44  4  Yes — ’twas  a  pity  we  didn’t  finish  it  when  we’d 
begun,’  the  clerk  said.  4  Still,  since  the  feelings  of 
your  holy  priestcraft  wouldn’t  let  ye,  the  couple  must 
put  up  with  it.’ 

“‘True,  clerk,  true!  Does  she  look  as  if  anything 
premature  had  took  place  ?’ 

44  4  1  can’t  see  her  no  lower  down  than  her  armpits, 
sir.’ 

44  4  Well — how  do  her  face  look  ?’ 

44  4  It  do  look  mighty  white!’ 

44  4  Well,  we  must  know  the  worst!  Dear  me,  how 
the  small  of  my  back  do  ache  from  that  ride  yester¬ 
day  !  .  .  .  But  to  more  godly  business.’ 

“They  went  on  into  the  church,  and  unlocked  the 
tower  stairs,  and  immediately  poor  Jane  and  Andrey 
busted  out  like  starved  mice  from  a  cupboard,  Andrey 


life’s  little  ironies 


232 

limp  and  sober  enough  now,  and  his  bride  paie  and 
cold,  but  otherwise  as  usual. 

“  1  What,’ says  the  pa, ’son,  with  a  great  breath  of  re¬ 
lief,  ‘  you  haven’t  been  here  ever  since?’ 

“  ‘Yes,  we  have,  sir  !’  says  the  bride,  sinking  down 
upon  a  seat  in  her  weakness.  “Not  a  morsel,  wet  or 
dry,  have  we  had  since!  It  was  impossible  to  get  out 
without  help,  and  here  we’ve  stayed.’ 

“‘But  why  didn’t  you  shout,  good  souls?’ said  the 
pa’son. 

“‘She  wouldn’t  lot  me,’  says  Andrey. 

“‘Because  we  were  so  ashamed  at  what  had  led  to 
it,’ sobs  Jane.  ‘  We  felt  that  if  it  were  noised  abroad 
it  would  cling  to  us  all  our  lives  !  Once  or  twice  An¬ 
drey  had  a  good  mind  to  toll  the  bell,  but  then  he 
said  :  “No  ;  I’ll  starve  first.  I  won’t  bring  disgrace 
on  my  name  and  yours,  my  dear.”  And  so  we  waited, 
and  waited,  and  walked  round  and  round;  but  never 
did  you  come  till  now  !’ 

“  ‘  To  my  regret !’  says  the  pa’son.  ‘  Now,  then, 
we  will  soon  get  it  over.’ 

“‘1  —  I  should  like  some  victuals,’  said  Andrey; 
‘ ’twould  gie  mo  courage  if  it  is  only  a  crust  o’ bread 
ami  a’  onion  ;  for  I  am  that  leery  that  I  can  feel  my 
stomach  rubbing  against  my  backbone.’ 

“‘I  think  we  had  better  get  it  done,’  said  the  bride, 
a  bit  anxious  in  manner  ;  ‘  since  we  are  all  here  con¬ 
venient,  too.’ 

“Andrey  gave  way  about  the  victuals,  and  the 
clerk  called  in  a  second  witness  who  wouldn’t  be 
likely  to  gossip  about  it,  and  soon  the  knot  was  tied, 
and  the  bride  looked  smiling  and  calm  forthwith,  and 
Andrey  limper  than  ever. 

“  ‘  Now,’  said  Pa’son  Toogood,  ‘you  two  must  come 
to  my  house,  and  have  a  good  lining  put  to  your  in¬ 
sides  before  you  go  a  step  farther.’ 


ANDREY  SATCHEL  AND  THE  PARSON  AND  CLERK  238 


“  They  were  very  glad  of  the  offer,  and  went  out  of 
the  church -yard  by  one  path  while  the  pa’son  and 
clerk  went  out  by  the  other,  and  so  did  not  attract 
notice,  it  being  still  early.  They  entered  the  rectory 
as  if  they’d  just  come  back  from  their  trip  to  Port 
Bredy ;  and  then  they  knocked  in  the  victuals  and 
drink  till  they  could  hold  no  more. 

“  It  was  a  long  while  before  the  story  of  what  they 
had  gone  through  was  known,  but  it  was  talked  of  in 
time,  and  they  themselves  laugh  over  it  now  ;  though 
what  Jane  got  for  her  pains  was  no  great  bargain  af¬ 
ter  all.  ’Tis  true  she  saved  her  name.” 

“Was  that  the  same  Andrey  who  went  to  the 
squire’s  house  as  one  of  the  Christmas  fiddlers  ?”  asked 
the  seedsman. 

“No,  no,”  replied  Mr.  Profitt,  the  school-master.  “  It 
was  his  father  did  that.  Aye,  it  was  all  owing  to  his 
being  such  a  man  for  eating  and  drinking.”  Finding 
that  he  had  the  ear  of  the  audience,  the  school-master 
continued  without  delay : 


OLD  ANDREWS  EXPERIENCE  AS  A  MUSICIAN 


“I  was  one  of  the  choir-boys  at  that  time,  and  we 
and  the  players  were  to  appear  at  the  manor-house  as 
usual  that  Christmas  week  to  play  and  sing  in  the 
hall  to  the  squire’s  people  and  visitors  (among  'em  be¬ 
ing  the  archdeacon.  Lord  and  Lady  Baxbv,  and  I  don’t 
know  who)  ;  afterwards  going,  as  we  always  did,  to 
have  3  good  supper  in  the  servants’  hall.  Andrew 
knew  this  was  the  custom,  and  meeting  us  when  we 
we  were  starting  to  go,  he  said  to  us  :  ‘Lord,  how  I 
should  like  to  join  in  that  meal  of  beef  and  turkey 
and  plum -pudding  and  ale  that  you  happy  ones  be 
going  to  just  now  !  One  more  or  less  will  make  no 
difference  to  the  squire.  I  am  too  old  to  pass  as  a 
singing  boy,  and  too  bearded  to  pass  as  a  singing  girl; 
can  ye  lend  me  a  fiddle,  neighbors,  that  I  may  come 
with  ye  as  a  bandsman  ?' 

“  Well,  we  didn't  like  to  be  hard  upon  him,  and 
lent  him  an  old  one.  though  Andrew  knew  no  more 
of  music  than  the  Cerne  Giant  ;  and  armed  with  the 
instrument  he  walked  up  to  the  squire’s  house  with 
the  others  of  us  at  the  time  appointed,  and  went  in 
boldly,  his  fiddle  under  his  arm.  He  made  himself 
as  natural  as  he  could  in  opening  the  music-books  and 
moving  the  candles  to  the  best  points  for  throwing 
light  upon  the  notes  :  and  all  went  well  till  we  had 
played  and  sung  ‘  While  shepherds  watch,’  and  ‘Star, 
arise,’ and  ‘Hark  the  glad  sound.’  Then  the  squire's 
mother,  a  tall,  gruff  old  lady,  who  was  much  inter¬ 
ested  in  Church  music,  said  quite  unexpectedly  to  An- 


OLD  ANDKEYS  EXPERIENCE  AS  A  MUSICIAN  235 

drew  :  4  My  man  I  see  you  don’t  play  your  instru¬ 
ment  with  the  rest.  How  is  that  V 

44  Every  one  of  the  choir  was  ready  to  sink  into 
the  earth  with  concern  at  the  fix  Andrew  was  in. 
We  could  see  that  he  had  fallen  into  a  cold  sweat, 
and  how  he  would  get  out  of  it  we  did  not  know. 

44  4  I’ve  had  a  misfortune,  mem,’  he  says,  bowing 
as  meek  as  a  child.  4  Coming  along  the  road  I  fell 
down  and  broke  my  bow.’ 

“  4  Oh,  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that,’  says  she.  4  Can’t 
it  be  mended  V 

44  4  Oh  no,  mem,’  says  Andrew.  4  ’Twas  broke  all 
to  splinters.’ 

44  4  I’ll  see  what  I  can  do  for  you,’  says  she. 

44  And  then  it  seemed  all  over,  and  we  played  4  Re¬ 
joice,  ye  drowsy  mortals  all,’  in  D  and  two  sharps. 
But  no  sooner  had  we  got  through  it  than  she  says 
to  Andrew  : 

44  4  I’ve  sent  up  into  the  attic,  where  we  have  some 
old  musical  instruments,  and  found  a  bow  for  you.’ 
And  she  hands  the  bow  to  poor  wretched  Andrew, 
who  didn’t  even  know  which  end  to  take  hold  of. 
4  Now  we  shall  have  the  full  accompaniment,’  says 
she. 

44  Andrew’s  face  looked  as  if  it  were  made  of  rotten 
apple  as  he  stood  in  the  circle  of  players  in  front  of 
his  book  ;  for  if  there  was  one  person  in  the  parish 
that  everybody  was  afraid  of  ’twas  this  hook-nosed 
old  lady.  However,  by  keeping  a  little  behind  the 
next  man  he  managed  to  make  pretence  of  beginning, 
sawing  away  with  his  bow  without  letting  it  touch 
the  strings,  so  that  it  looked  as  if  he  were  driving 
into  the  tune  with  heart  and  soul.  ’Tis  a  question  if 
he  wouldn’t  have  got  through  all  right  if  one  of  the 
squire’s  visitors,  no  other  than  the  archdeacon,  hadn’t 
noticed  that  he  held  the  fiddle  upside-down,  the  nut 


236 


life’s  little  ironies 

under  his  chin,  and  the  tail-piece  in  his  hand,  and 
they  began  to  crowd  round  him,  thinking  ’twas  some 
new  way  of  performing. 

“  This  revealed  everything ;  the  squire’s  mother 
had  Andrew  turned  out  of  the  house  as  a  vile  impos¬ 
tor,  and  there  was  great  interruption  to  the  harmony 
of  the  proceedings,  the  squire  declaring  he  should 
have  notice  to  leave  his  cottage  that  day  fortnight. 
However,  when  we  got  to  the  servants’  hall  there  sat 
Andrew,  who  had  been  let  in  at  the  back  door  by  the 
orders  of  the  squire’s  wife,  after  being  turned  out  at 
the  front  by  the  orders  of  the  squire,  and  nothing 
more  was  heard  about  his  leaving  his  cottage.  But 
Andrew  never  performed  in  public  as  a  musician  after 
that  night ;  and  now  he’s  dead  and  gone,  poor  man, 
as  we  all  shall  be.” 

t£  I  had  quite  forgotten  the  old  choir,  with  their 
fiddles  and  bass-viols,”  said  the  home-comer,  musing¬ 
ly.  “  Are  they  still  going  on  the  same  as  of  old  ?” 

“  Bless  the  man  !”  said  Christopher  Twink,  the 
inaster-thatcher  ;  “  why,  they’ve  been  done  away  with 
these  twenty  year.  A  young  teetotaler  plays  the 
organ  in  church  now,  and  plays  it  very  well ;  though 
’tis  not  quite  such  good  music  as  in  old  times,  be¬ 
cause  the  organ  is  one  of  them  that  go  with  a  winch, 
and  the  young  teetotaler  says  he  can’t  always  throw 
the  proper  feeling  into  the  tune  without  wellnigh 
working  his  arms  olf.” 

“  Why  did  they  make  the  change,  then  ?” 

“Well,  partly  because  of  fashion,  partly  because 
the  old  musicians  got  into  a  sort  of  scrape.  A  terri¬ 
ble  scrape  ’twas, too — wasn’t  it,  John?  I  shall  never 
forget  it — never  !  They  lost  their  character  as  officers 
of  the  church  as  complete  as  if  they’d  never  had  any 
character  at  all.” 


old  Audrey’s  experience  as  a  musician  237 

“  That  was  very  bad  for  them.” 

“  Yes.”  The  master-thatcher  attentively  regarded 
past  times  as  if  they  lay  about  a  mile  off,  and  went 


ABSENT-MINDEDNESS  IN  A  PARISH  CHOIR 


“  It  happened  on  Sunday  after  Christmas — the  last 
Sunday  they  ever  played  in  Longpuddle  church  gal¬ 
lery,  as  it  turned  out,  though  they  didn’t  know  it  then. 
As  you  may  know,  sir,  the  players  formed  a  very 
good  band — almost  as  good  as  the  Mellstoek  parish 
players  that  were  led  by  the  Dewys  ;  and  that’s  say¬ 
ing  a  great  deal.  There  was  Nicholas  Puddingcome, 
the  leader,  with  the  first  fiddle  ;  there  was  Timothy 
Thomas,  the  bass-viol  man;  John  Biles,  the  tenor 
fiddler  ;  Dan’l  Ilornhead,  with  the  serpent ;  Robert 
Dowdle,  with  the  clarionet  ;  and  Mr.  Nicks,  with  the 
oboe — all  sound  and  powerful  musicians,  and  strong- 
winded  men — they  that  blowed.  For  that  reason 
they  were  very  much  in  demand  Christmas  week  for 
little  reels  and  dancing-parties  ;  for  they  could  turn 
a  jig  or  a  hornpipe  out  of  hand  as  well  as  ever  they 
could  turn  out  a  psalm,  and  perhaps  better,  not  to 
speak  irreverent.  In  short,  one  half-hour  they  could 
be  playing  a  Christmas  carol  in  the  squire’s  hall  to 
the  ladies  and  gentlemen,  and  drinking  tay  and  coffee 
with  ’em  as  modest  as  saints  ;  and  the  next,  at  the 
Tinker’s  Arms,  blazing  away  like  wild  horses  with  the 
‘Dashing  White  Sergeant’  to  nine  couple  of  dancers 
and  more,  and  swallowing  rum-and-cider  hot  as  flame. 

“  Well,  this  Christmas  they’d  been  out  to  one  rat¬ 
tling  randy  after  another  every  night,  and  had  got 
next  to  no  sleep  at  all.  Then  came  the  Sunday  after 
Christmas,  their  fatal  day.  ’Twas  so  mortal  cold 
that  year  that  they  could  hardly  sit  in  the  gallery ; 


ABSENT-MINDED NESS  IN  A  PARISH  CHOIR  239 


for  though  the  congregation  down  in  the  body  of  the 
church  had  a  stove  to  keep  off  the  frost,  the  players 
in  the  gallery  had  nothing  at  all.  So  Nicholas  said 
at  morning  service,  when  ’twas  freezing  an  inch  an 
hour,  ‘  Please  the  Lord  I  won’t  stand  this  numbing 
weather  no  longer  ;  this  afternoon  we’ll  have  some¬ 
thing  in  our  insides  to  make  us  warm  if  it  cost  a 
king’s  ransom.’ 

“So  he  brought  a  gallon  of  hot  brandy  and  beer, 
ready  mixed,  to  church  with  him  in  the  afternoon, 
and  by  keeping  the  jar  well  wrapped  up  in  Timothy 
Thomas’s  bass  -  viol  bag  it  kept  drinkably  warm  till 
they  wanted  it,  which  was  just  a  thimbleful  in  the 
Absolution,  and  another  after  the  Creed,  and  the  re¬ 
mainder  at  the  beginning  o’  the  sermon.  When 
they’d  had  the  last  pull  they  felt  quite  comfortable 
and  warm,  and  as  the  sermon  went  on — most  unfortu¬ 
nately  for  ’em  it  was  a  long  one  that  afternoon-  -they 
fell  asleep,  every  man  jack  of  ’em  ;  and  there  they 
slept  on  as  sound  as  rocks. 

“  ’Twas  a  very  dark  afternoon,  and  by  the  end  of 
the  sermon  all  you  could  see  of  the  inside  of  the  church 
were  the  pa’son’s  two  candles  alongside  of  him  in  the 
pulpit,  and  his  spaking  face  behind  ’em.  The  sermon 
being  ended  at  last,  the  pa’son  gie’d  out  the  Evening 
Hymn.  But  no  choir  set  about  sounding  up  the  tune, 
and  the  people  began  to  turn  their  heads  to  learn  the 
reason  why,  and  then  Levi  Limpet,  a  boy  who  sat  in 
the  gallery,  nudged  Timothy  and  Nicholas,  and  said, 
‘Begin!  begin!’ 

“  ‘  Hey,  what  ?’  says  Nicholas,  starting  up  ;  and 
the  church  being  so  dark  and  his  head  so  muddled  he 
thought  he  was  at  the  party  they  had  played  at  all 
the  night  before,  and  away  he  went,  bow  and  fiddle, 
at  ‘The  Devil  among  the  Tailors,’  the  favorite  jig  of 
our  neighborhood  at  that  time.  The  rest  of  the  band, 


m 


life’s  little  ironies 


being  in  the  same  state  of  mind  and  nothing  doubt¬ 
ing,  followed  their  leader  with  all  their  strength,  ac¬ 
cording  to  custom.  They  poured  out  that  there  tune 
till  the  lower  bass  notes  of  4  The  Devil  among  the 
Tailors’  made  the  cobwebs  in  the  roof  shiver  like 
ghosts  ;  then  Nicholas,  seeing  nobody  moved,  shouted 
out  as  he  scraped  (in  his  usual  commanding  way  at 
dances  when  the  folk  didn’t  know  the  figures),  4  Top 
couples  cross  hands  !  And  when  I  make  the  fiddle 
squeak  at  the  end,  every  man  kiss  his  pardner  under 
the  mistletoe !’ 

44  The  boy  Levi  was  so  frightened  that  he  bolted 
down  the  gallery  stairs  and  out  homeward  like  light¬ 
ning.  The  pa’son’s  hair  fairly  stood  on  end  when  he 
heard  the  evil  tune  raging  through  the  church;  and 
thinking  the  choir  had  gone  crazy,  he  held  up  his  hand 
and  said:  ‘Stop,  stop,  stop!  Stop,  stop!  What’s 
this?’  But  they  didn’t  hear  ’n  for  the  noise  of  their 
own  playing,  and  the  more  he  called  the  louder  they 
played. 

44  Then  the  folks  came  out  of  their  pews,  wondering 
down  to  the  ground,  and  saying:  4  What  do  they  mean 
by  such  wickedness?  We  shall  be  consumed  like 
Sodom  and  Gomorrah  !’ 

44  Then  the  squire  came  out  of  his  pew  lined  wi’ 
green  baize,  where  lots  of  lords  and  ladies  visiting  at 
the  house  were  worshipping  along  with  him,  and  went 
and  stood  in  front  of  the  gallery,  and  shook  his  fist  in 
the  musicians’  faces,  saying, 4  What  !  In  this  reverent 
edifice  !  What  !’ 

44  And  at  last  they  heard  ’n  through  their  playing, 
and  stopped. 

‘‘‘Never  such  an  insulting,  disgraceful  thing — nev¬ 
er  !’  says  the  squire,  who  couldn’t  rule  his  passion. 

“‘Never  !’  says  the  pa’son,  who  had  come  down  and 
stood  beside  him. 


ABSENT-MINDEDNESS  IN  A  PARISH  CHOIR  341 


“‘Not  if  the  angels  of  Heaven,’  says  the  squire, 
(he  was  a  wickedish  man,  the  squire  was,  though  now 
for  once  he  happened  to  be  on  the  Lord’s  side) — ‘not 
if  the  angels  of  Heaven  come  down,’  he  says,  ‘  shall 
one  of  you  villanous  players  ever  sound  a  note  in  this 
church  again  ;  for  the  insult  to  me,  and  my  family, 
and  my  visitors,  and  God  Almighty,  that  you’ve  a-per- 
petrated  this  afternoon !’ 

“  Then  the  unfortunate  church  band  came  to  their 
senses,  and  remembered  where  they  were;  and  ’twas 
a  sight  to  see  Nicholas  Puddingcome  and  Timothy 
Thomas  and  John  Biles  creep  down  the  gallery  stairs 
with  their  fiddles  under  their  arms,  and  poor  Dan’l 
Hornhead  with  his  serpent,  and  Robert  Dowdle  with 
his  clarionet,  all  looking  as  little  as  ninepins  ;  and  out 
they  went.  The  pa’son  might  have  forgi’ed  ’em  when 
he  learned  the  truth  o’t,  but  the  squire  would  not. 
That  very  week  he  sent  for  a  barrel-organ  that  would 
play  two -and  -  twenty  new  psalm  tunes,  so  exact  and 
particular  that,  however  sinful  inclined  you  was,  you 
could  play  nothing  but  psalm  tunes  whatsomever.  He 
had  a  really  respectable  man  to  turn  the  winch,  as  I 
said,  and  the  old  players  played  no  more.” 

“And,  of  course,  my  old  acquaintance,  the  annui¬ 
tant,  Mrs.  Winter,  who  always  seemed  to  have  some¬ 
thing  on  her  mind,  is  dead  and  gone  ?”  said  the  home- 
comer,  after  a  long  silence. 

Nobody  in  the  van  seemed  to  recollect  the  name. 

“  Oh  yes,  she  must  be  dead  long  since  ;  she  was 
seventy  when  I  as  a  child  knew  her,”  he  added. 

“I  can  recollect  Mrs.  Winter  very  well,  if  nobody 
else  can,”  said  the  aged  groceress.  “  Yes,  she’s  been 
dead  these  five-and-twenty  year  at  least.  You  knew 
what  it  was  upon  her  mind,  sir,  that  gave  her  that 
hollow-eyed  look,  I  suppose  ?” 

16 


242 


life’s  little  ironies 


“  It  had  something  to  do  with  a  son  of  hers,  I  think 
I  once  was  told.  But  I  was  too  young  to  know  par¬ 
ticulars.” 

The  groceress  sighed  as  she  conjured  up  a  vision 
of  da}^s  long  past.  “  Yes,”  she  murmured,  “  it  had  all 
to  do  with  a  son.”  Finding  that  the  van  was  still  in 
a  listening  mood,  she  spoke  on: 


THE  WINTERS  AND  THE  PALMLEYS 


“To  go  back  to  the  beginning — if  one  must — there 
were  two  women  in  the  parish  when  I  was  a  child  who 
were  to  a  certain  extent  rivals  in  good  looks.  Never 
mind  particulars,  but  in  consequence  of  this  they 
were  at  daggers  -  drawn,  and  they  did  not  love  each 
other  any  better  when  one  of  them  tempted  the  other’s 
lover  away  from  her  and  married  him.  He  was  a 
young  man  of  the  name  of  Winter,  and  in  due  time 
they  had  a  son. 

“  The  other  woman  did  not  marry  for  many  years ; 
but  when  she  was  about  thirty  a  quiet  man  named 
Palmley  asked  her  to  be  his  wife,  and  she  accepted 
him.  Yrou  don’t  mind  when  the  Palmleys  were  Long- 
puddle  folk,  but  I  do  well.  She  had  a  son  also,  who 
was,  of  course,  nine  or  ten  years  younger  than  the  son 
of  the  first.  The  child  proved  to  be  of  rather  weak 
intellect,  though  his  mother  loved  him  as  the  apple  of 
her  eye. 

“  This  woman’s  husband  died  wdien  the  child  was 
eight  years  old,  and  left  his  widow  and  boy  in  pov¬ 
erty.  Her  former  rival,  also  a  widow  now,  but  fairly 
well  provided  for,  offered  for  pity’s  sake  to  take  the 
child  as  errand  -  boy,  small  as  he  was,  her  own  son, 
Jack,  being  hard  upon  seventeen.  Her  poor  neighbor 
could  do  no  better  than  let  the  child  go  there.  And 
to  the  richer  woman’s  house  little  Palmley  straight¬ 
way  went. 

“Well,  in  some  way  or  other — how,  it  was  never 
exactly  known  —  the  thriving  woman,  Mrs.  Winter, 


LIFE5**  LITTLE  IBOfflE* 


Mi 

sent  the  little  boy  with  a  message  to  the  next  village 
one  December  day,  much  against  his  will.  It  was  get* 
ting  dark,  and  the  child  prayed  to  be  allowed  not  to 
go,  because  he  would  be  afraid  coming  home.  But 
the  mistress  insisted,  more  out  of  thoughtlessness  than 
cruelty,  and  the  child  went.  On  his  way  back  he  had 
to  pass  through  Yalbury  Wood,  and  something  came 
out  from  behind  a  tree  and  frightened  him  into  fits. 
The  child  was  quite  ruined  by  it  ;  he  became  quite  a 
drivelling  idiot,  and  soon  afterwards  died. 

“  Then  the  other  woman  had  nothing  left  to  live 
for,  and  vowed  vengeance  against  that  rival  who  had 
first  won  away  her  lover,  and  now  had  been  the  cause 
of  her  bereavement.  This  last  affliction  was  certainly 
not  intended  by  her  thriving  acquaintance,  though  it 
must  be  owned  that  when  it  was  done  she  seemed 
but  little  concerned.  Whatever  vengeance  poor  Mrs. 
Palmley  felt,  she  had  no  opportunity  of  carrying  it 
out,  and  time  might  have  softened  her  feelings  into 
forgetfulness  of  her  supposed  wrongs  as  she  dragged 
on  her  lonely  life.  So  matters  stood  when,  a  year 
after  the  death  of  the  child,  Mrs.  Palmley’s  niece,  who 
had  been  born  and  bred  in  the  city  of  Exonbury,  came 
to  live  with  her. 

“This  young  woman — Miss  Harriet  Palmley — was 
a  proud  and  handsome  girl,  very  well  brought  up,  and 
more  stylish  and  genteel  than  the  people  of  our  vil¬ 
lage,  as  was  natural,  considering  where  she  came  from. 
She  regarded  herself  as  much  above  Mrs.  Winter  and 
her  son  in  position  as  Mrs.  Winter  and  her  son  consid¬ 
ered  themselves  above  poor  Mrs.  Palmley.  But  love 
is  an  unceremonious  thing,  and  what  in  the  world 
should  happen  but  that  young  Jack  Winter  must  fall 
wofully  and  wildly  in  love  with  Harriet  Palmley  al¬ 
most  as  soon  as  he  saw  her. 

“  She,  being  better  educated  than  he,  and  caring 


THE  WINTERS  AND  THE  PALMLEYS  245 

nothing  for  the  village  notion  of  his  mother’s  superior¬ 
ity  to  her  aunt,  did  not  give  him  much  encourage¬ 
ment.  But  Longpuddle  being  no  very  large  world, 
the  two  could  not  help  seeing  a  good  deal  of  each 
other  while  she  was  staying  there,  and,  disdainful 
young  woman  as  she  was,  she  did  seem  to  take  a  lit¬ 
tle  pleasure  in  his  attentions  and  advances. 

“  One  day,  when  they  were  picking  apples  together, 
he  asked  her  to  marry  him.  She  had  not  expected 
anything  so  practical  as  that  at  so  early  a  time,  and 
was  led  by  her  surprise  into  a  half-promise;  at  any 
rate,  she  did  not  absolutely  refuse  him,  and  accepted 
some  little  presents  that  he  made  her. 

“  But  he  saw  that  her  view  of  him  was  rather  as  a 
simple  village  lad  than  as  a  young  man  to  look  up  to, 
and  he  felt  that  he  must  do  something  bold  to  secure 
her.  So  he  said  one  day,  ‘  I  am  going  awa}7,  to  try  to 
get  into  a  better  position  than  I  can  get  here.’  In  two 
or  three  weeks  he  wished  her  good-bye,  and  went  away 
to  Monksbury  to  superintend  a  farm,  with  a  view  to 
start  as  a  farmer  himself  ;  and  from  there  he  wrote 
regularly  to  her,  as  if  their  marriage  were  an  under¬ 
stood  thing. 

“Now,  Harriet  liked  the  young  man’s  presents  and 
the  admiration  of  his  eyes,  but  on  paper  he  was  less 
attractive  to  her.  Her  mother  had  been  a  school-mis¬ 
tress,  and  Harriet  had  besides  a  natural  aptitude  for 
pen-and-ink  work,  in  days  when  to  be  a  ready  writer 
was  not  such  a  common  thing  as  it  is  now,  and  when 
actual  handwriting  was  valued  as  an  accomplishment 
in  itself.  Jack  Winter’s  performances  in  the  shape  of 
love-letters  quite  jarred  her  city  nerves  and  her  finer 
taste,  and  when  she  answered  one  of  them,  in  the 
lovely  running  hand  that  she  took  such  pride  in,  she 
very  strictly  and  loftily  bade  him  to  practise  with  a 
pen  and  spelling  -  book  if  he  wished  to  please  her. 


246 


life’s  little  ironies 


Whether  he  listened  to  her  request  or  not  nobody 
knows,  but  his  letters  did  not  improve.  He  ventured 
to  tell  her  in  his  clumsy  way  that  if  her  heart  were 
more  warm  towards  him  she  would  not  be  so  nice 
about  his  handwriting  and  spelling ;  which  indeed 
was  true  enough. 

“  Well,  in  Jack’s  absence  the  weak  flame  that  had 
been  set  alight  in  Harriet’s  heart  soon  sank  low,  and 
at  last  went  out  altogether.  He  wrote  and  wrote,  and 
begged  and  prayed  her  to  give  a  reason  for  her  cold¬ 
ness  ;  and  then  she  told  him  plainly  that  she  was  town 
born,  and  he  was  not  sufficiently  well  educated  to 
please  her. 

“  Jack  Winter’s  want  of  pen-and-ink  training  did 
not  make  him  less  thin-skinned  than  others  ;  in  fact, 
he  was  terribly  tender  and  touchy  about  anything. 
This  reason  that  she  gave  for  finally  throwing  him 
over  grieved  him,  shamed  him,  and  mortified  him 
more  than  can  be  told  in  these  times,  the  pride  of 
that  day  in  being  able  to  write  with  beautiful  flour¬ 
ishes,  and  the  sorrow  at  not  being  able  to  do  so,  raging 
so  high.  Jack  replied  to  her  with  an  angry  note,  and 
then  she  hit  back  with  smart  little  stings,  telling  him 
how  many  words  he  had  misspelled  in  his  last  letter, 
and  declaring  again  that  this  alone  was  sufficient  justi¬ 
fication  for  any  woman  to  put  an  end  to  an  understand¬ 
ing  with  him.  Her  husband  must  be  a  better  scholar. 

“He  bore  her  rejection  of  him  in  silence,  but  his 
suffering  was  sharp — all  the  sharper  in  being  untold. 
She  communicated  with  Jack  no  more  ;  and  as  his 
reason  for  going  out  into  the  world  had  been  only  to 
provide  a  home  worthy  of  her,  he  had  no  further  ob¬ 
ject  in  planning  such  a  home,  now  that  she  was  lost  to 
him.  He  therefore  gave  up  the  farming  occupation  by 
which  he  had  hoped  to  make  himself  a  master-farmer, 
and  left  the  spot  to  return  to  his  mother. 


THE  WINTERS  AND  THE  PALMLEY8 


247 


“  As  soon  as  he  got  back  to  Longpuddle  he  found 
that  Harriet  had  already  looked  wi’  favor  upon  an¬ 
other  lover.  He  was  a  young  road  -  contractor,  and 
Jack  could  not  but  admit  that  his  rival  was,  both  in 
manners  and  scholarship,  much  ahead  of  him.  Indeed, 
a  more  sensible  match  for  the  beauty  who  had  been 
dropped  into  the  village  by  fate  could  hardly  have 
been  found  than  this  man,  who  could  offer  her  so  much 
better  a  chance  than  Jack  could  have  done,  with  his 
uncertain  future  and  narrow  abilities  for  grappling 
with  the  world.  The  fact  was  so  clear  to  him  that  he 
could  hardly  blame  her. 

“  One  day  by  accident  Jack  saw  on  a  scrap  of  paper 
the  handwriting  of  Harriet’s  new  beloved.  It  was 
flowing  like  a  stream,  well  spelled,  the  work  of  a  man 
accustomed  to  the  ink-bottle  and  the  dictionary — of  a 
man  already  called  in  the  parish  a  good  scholar.  And 
then  it  struck  all  of  a  sudden  into  Jack’s  mind  what  a 
contrast  the  letters  of  this  young  man  must  make  to 
his  own  miserable  old  letters,  and  how  ridiculous  they 
must  make  his  lines  appear.  He  groaned  and  wished 
he  had  never  written  to  her,  and  wondered  if  she  had 
ever  kept  his  poor  performances.  Possibly  she  had 
kept  them,  for  women  are  in  the  habit  of  doing  that, 
he  thought;  and  while  they  were  in  her  hands  there 
was  always  a  chance  of  his  honest,  stupid  love  assur¬ 
ances  to  her  being  joked  over  by  Harriet  with  her 
present  lover,  or  by  anybody  who  should  accidentally 
uncover  them. 

“  The  nervous,  moody  young  man  could  not  bear 
the  thought  of  it,  and  at  length  decided  to  ask  her  to 
return  them,  as  was  proper  when  engagements  were 
broken  off.  He  was  some  hours  in  framing,  copying, 
and  recopying  the  short  note  in  which  he  made  his 
request,  and  having  finished  it,  he  sent  it  to  her 
house.  His  messenger  came  back  with  the  answer, 


248 


life’s  little  ironies 


by  word  of  mouth,  that  Miss  Palmley  bade  him  say 
she  should  not  part  with  what  was  hers,  and  wondered 
at  his  boldness  in  troubling  her. 

“Jack  was  much  affronted  at  this,  and  determined 
to  go  for  his  letters  himself.  He  chose  a  time  when 
he  knew  she  was  at  home,  and  knocked  and  went  in 
without  much  ceremony;  for  though  Harriet  was  so 
high  and  mighty,  Jack  had  small  respect  for  her  aunt, 
Mrs.  Palmley,  whose  little  child  had  been  his  boot- 
cleaner  in  earlier  days.  Harriet  was  in  the  room,  this 
being  the  first  time  they  had  met  since  she  had  jilted 
him.  He  asked  for  his  letters  with  a  stern  and  bitter 
look  at  her. 

“  At  first  she  said  he  might  have  them  for  all  that 
she  cared,  and  took  them  out  of  the  bureau  where  she 
kept  them.  Then  she  glanced  over  the  outside  one 
of  the  packet,  and,  suddenly  altering  her  mind,  she 
told  him  shortly  that  his  request  was  a  silly  one,  and 
slipped  the  letters  into  her  aunt’s  work-box,  which 
stood  open  on  the  table,  locking  it,  and  saying  with  a 
bantering  laugh  that  of  course  she  thought  it  best  to 
keep  ’em,  since  they  might  be  useful  to  produce  as 
evidence  that  she  had  good  cause  for  declining  to 
marry  him. 

“  He  blazed  up  hot.  4  Give  me  those  letters  !’  he 
said.  4  They  are  mine  !’ 

44  4  No,  they  are  not,’  she  replied ;  4  they  are  mine.’ 

44  4  Whos’ever  they  are  I  want  them  back,’  says  he. 
4 1  don’t  want  to  be  made  sport  of  for  my  penman¬ 
ship  :  you’ve  another  young  man  now  !  He  has  your 
confidence,  and  you  pour  all  your  tales  into  his  ear. 
You’ll  be  showing:  them  to  him!’ 

44  4  Perhaps,’  said  my  lady  Harriet,  with  calm  cool¬ 
ness,  like  the  heartless  woman  that  she  was. 

44  Her  manner  so  maddened  him  that  he  made  a 
step  towards  the  work-box,  but  she  snatched  it  up, 


THE  WINTERS  AND  THE  PALMLEYS 


249 


locked  it  in  the  bureau,  and  turned  upon  him  trium¬ 
phant.  For  a  moment  he  seemed  to  be  going  to 
wrench  the  key  of  the  bureau  out  of  her  hand  ;  but 
he  stopped  himself,  and  swung  round  upon  his  heel 
and  went  away. 

“  When  he  was  out-of-doors  alone,  and  it  got  night, 
he  walked  about  restless,  and  stinging  with  the  sense 
of  being  beaten  at  all  points  by  her.  He  could  not 
help  fancying  her  telling  her  new  lover  or  her  ac¬ 
quaintances  of  this  scene  with  himself,  and  laughing 
with  them  over  those  poor  blotted,  crooked  lines  of 
his  that  he  had  been  so  anxious  to  obtain.  As  the 
evening  passed  on  he  worked  himself  into  a  dogged 
resolution  to  have  them  back  at  any  price,  come  what 
might. 

“  At  the  dead  of  night  he  came  out  of  his  mother’s 
house  by  the  back  door,  and  creeping  through  the 
garden  hedge  went  along  the  field  adjoining  till  he 
reached  the  back  of  her  aunt’s  dwelling.  The  moon 
struck  bright  and  flat  upon  the  walls,  ’twas  said,  and 
every  shiny  leaf  of  the  creepers  was  like  a  little 
looking-glass  in  the  rays.  From  long  acquaintance 
Jack  knew  the  arrangement  and  position  of  every¬ 
thing  in  Mrs.  Palmley’s  house  as  well  as  in  his  own 
mothers.  The  back  window  close  to  him  was  a  case¬ 
ment  with  little  leaded  squares,  as  it  is  to  this  day, 
and  was,  as  now,  one  of  two  lighting  the  sitting- 
room.  The  other,  being  in  front,  was  closed  up  with 
shutters,  but  this  back  one  had  not  even  a  blind,  and 
the  moonlight  as  it  streamed  in  showed  every  article 
of  the  furniture  to  him  outside.  To  the  right  of  the 
room  is  the  fireplace,  as  you  may  remember  ;  to  the 
left  was  the  bureau  at  that  time  ;  inside  the  bureau 
was  Harriet’s  work  -  box,  as  he  supposed  (though  it 
was  really  her  aunt’s),  and  inside  the  work  -  box  were 
his  letters.  Well,  he  took  out  his  pocket-knife,  and 


250 


life’s  little  ironies 


without  noise  lifted  the  leading  of  one  of  the  panes, 
so  that  he  could  take  out  the  glass,  and  putting  his 
hand  through  the  hole  he  unfastened  the  casement, 
and  climbed  in  through  the  opening.  All  the  house¬ 
hold —  that  is  to  say,  Mrs.  Palmley,  Harriet,  and  the 
little  maid-servant — were  asleep.  Jack  went  straight 
to  the  bureau,  so  he  said,  hoping  it  might  have  been 
unfastened  again  —  it  not  being  kept  locked  in  ordi¬ 
nary —  but  Harriet  had  never  unfastened  it  since  she 
secured  her  letters  there  the  day  before.  Jack  told 
afterwards  how  he  thought  of  her  asleep  up-stairs, 
caring  nothing  for  him,  and  of  the  way  she  had  made 
sport  of  him  and  of  his  letters;  and  having  advanced 
so  far,  he  was  not  to  be  hindered  now.  By  forcing 
the  large  blade  of  his  knife  under  the  flap  of  the 
bureau  he  burst  the  weak  lock  ;  within  was  the  rose¬ 
wood  work-box  just  as  she  had  placed  it  in  her  hurry 
to  keep  it  from  him.  There  being  no  time  to  spare  for 
getting  the  letters  out  of  it  then,  he  took  it  under  his 
arm,  shut  the  bureau,  and  made  the  best  of  his  way 
out  of  the  house,  latching  the  casement  behind  him, 
and  refixing  the  pane  of  glass  in  its  place. 

“  Winter  found  his  way  back  to  his  mother’s  as  he 
had  come,  and  being  dog-tired,  crept  up-stairs  to  bed, 
hiding  the  box  till  he  could  destroy  its  contents.  The 
next  morning  early  he  set  about  doing  this,  and  car¬ 
ried  it  to  the  linhay  at  the  back  of  his  mother’s  dwell¬ 
ing.  Here  by  the  hearth  he  opened  the  box,  and 
began  burning  one  by  one  the  letters  that  had  cost 
him  so  much  labor  to  write  and  shame  to  think  of, 
meaning  to  return  the  box  to  Harriet,  after  repairing 
the  slight  damage  he  had  caused  it  by  opening  it 
without  a  key,  with  a  note — the  last  she  would  ever 
receive  from  him — telling  her  triumphantly  that  in  re¬ 
fusing  to  return  what  he  had  asked  for  she  had  calcu¬ 
lated  too  surely  upon  his  submission  to  her  whims. 


THE  WINTERS  AND  THE  PALMLEYS 


251 


“  But  on  removing  the  last  letter  from  the  box  he 
received  a  shock  ;  for  underneath  it,  at  the  very  bot¬ 
tom,  lay  money — several  golden  guineas — *  Doubtless 
Harriet’s  pocket-money,’  he  said  to  himself;  though 
it  was  not,  but  Mrs.  Palmley’s.  Before  he  had  got 
over  his  qualms  at  this  discovery  he  heard  footsteps 
coming  through  the  house  -  passage  to  where  he  was. 
In  haste  he  pushed  the  box  and  what  was  in  it  under 
some  brushwood  which  lay  in  the  linhay  ;  but  Jack 
had  been  already  seen.  Two  constables  entered  the 
out- house,  and  seized  him  as  he  knelt  before  the  fire¬ 
place,  securing  the  work  -  box  and  all  it  contained  at 
the  same  moment.  They  had  come  to  apprehend  him 
on  a  charge  of  breaking  into  the  dwelling-house  of 
Mrs.  Palmley  on  the  night  preceding  ;  and  almost  be¬ 
fore  the  lad  knew  what  had  happened  to  him  they 
were  leading  him  along  the  lane  that  connects  that 
end  of  the  village  with  this  turnpike-road,  and  along 
they  marched  him  between  ’em  all  the  way  to  Caster- 
bridge  jail. 

“  Jack’s  act  amounted  to  night  burglary — though  he 
had  never  thought  of  it — and  burglary  was  felony,  and 
a  capital  offence  in  those  days.  Ilis  figure  had  been 
seen  by  some  one  against  the  bright  wall  as  he  came 
away  from  Mrs.  Palmley’s  back  window,  and  the  box 
and  money  were  found  in  his  possession,  while  the  evi¬ 
dence  of  the  broken  bureau  lock  and  tinkered  window- 
pane  was  more  than  enough  for  circumstantial  detail. 
Whether  his  protestation  that  he  went  only  for  his  let¬ 
ters,  which  he  believed  to  be  wrongfully  kept  from 
him,  would  have  availed  him  anything  if  supported  by 
other  evidence  I  do  not  know  ;  but  the  one  person  who 
could  have  borne  it  out  was  Harriet,  and  she  acted 
entirely  under  the  sway  of  her  aunt.  That  aunt  was 
deadly  towards  Jack  Winter.  Mrs.  Palmley’s  time  had 
come.  Here  was  her  revenge  upon  the  woman  who 


252 


life’s  little  ironies 


first  won  away  her  lover,  and  next  ruined  and  deprived 
her  of  her  one  heart’s  treasure — her  little  son.  When 
the  assize  week  drew  on,  and  Jack  had  to  stand  his  trial, 
Harriet  did  not  appear  in  the  case  at  all,  which  was 
allowed  to  take  its  course,  Mrs.  Palmley  testifying  to 
the  general  facts  of  the  burglary.  Whether  Harriet 
would  have  come  forward  if  Jack  had  appealed  to  her 
is  not  known  ;  possibly  she  would  have  done  it  for 
pity’s  sake  ;  but  Jack  was  too  proud  to  ask  a  single 
favor  of  a  girl  who  had  jilted  him,  and  he  let  her  alone. 
The  trial  was  a  short  one,  and  the  death  sentence  was 
passed. 

“The  day  o’  young  Jack’s  execution  was  a  cold, 
dusty  Saturday  in  March.  He  was  so  boyish  and  slim 
that  they  were  obliged  in  mercy  to  hang  him  in  the 
heaviest  fetters  kept  in  the  jail,  lest  his  heft  should 
not  break  his  neck,  and  they  weighed  so  upon  him  that 
he  could  hardly  drag  himself  up  to  the  drop.  At  that 
time  the  gover’ment  was  not  strict  about  burying  the 
body  of  an  executed  person  within  the  precincts  of  the 
prison,  and  at  the  earnest  prayer  of  his  poor  mother 
his  body  was  allowed  to  be  brought  home.  All  the 
parish  waited  at  their  cottage  doors  in  the  evening 
for  its  arrival ;  I  remember  how,  as  a  very  little  girl,  I 
stood  by  my  mother’s  side.  About  eight  o’clock,  as  we 
hearkened  on  our  door-stones  in  the  cold,  bright  star¬ 
light,  we  could  hear  the  faint  crackle  of  a  wagon  from 
the  direction  of  the  turnpike-road.  The  noise  was  lost 
as  the  wagon  dropped  into  a  hollow,  then  it  was  plain 
again  as  it  lumbered  down  the  next  long  incline,  and 
presently  it  entered  Longpuddle.  The  coffin  was  laid 
in  the  belfry  for  the  night,  and  the  next  day,  Sun¬ 
day,  between  the  services,  we  buried  him.  A  funeral 
sermon  was  preached  the  same  afternoon,  the  text 
chosen  being,  ‘He  was  the  only  son  of  his  mother, and 
she  was  a  widow.’  .  .  .  Yes,  they  were  cruel  times ! 


THE  WINTERS  AND  THE  PALMLKYS 


253 


“  As  for  Harriet,  she  and  her  lover  were  married  in 
due  time  ;  but  by  all  account  her  life  was  no  jocund 
one.  She  and  her  good-man  found  that  they  could  not 
live  comfortably  at  Longpuddle  by  reason  of  her  con¬ 
nection  with  Jack’s  misfortunes,  and  they  settled  in  a 
distant  town,  and  were  no  more  heard  of  by  us ;  Mrs. 
Palmley,  too,  found  it  advisable  to  join  ’em  shortly 
after.  The  dark-eyed,  gaunt  old  Mrs.  Winter,  remem¬ 
bered  by  the  emigrant  gentleman  here,  was,  as  you 
will  have  foreseen,  the  Mrs.  Winter  of  this  story  ; 
and  I  can  well  call  to  mind  how  lonely  she  was,  how 
afraid  the  children  were  of  her,  and  how  she  kept 
herself  as  a  stranger  among  us,  though  she  lived  so 
long.” 

“Longpuddle  has  had  her  sad  experiences  as  well  as 
her  sunny  ones,”  said  Mr.  Lackland. 

“Yes,  yes.  But  I  am  thankful  to  say  not  many  like 
that,  though  good  and  bad  have  lived  among  us.” 

“There  was  Georgy  Crookhill — he  was  one  of  the 
shady  sort,  as  I  have  reason  to  know,”  observed  the 
registrar,  with  the  manner  of  a  man  who  would  like  to 
have  his  say  also. 

“  I  used  to  hear  what  he  was  as  a  boy  at  school.” 

“  Well,  as  he  began  so  he  went  on.  It  never  got  so 
far  as  a  hanging  matter  with  him,  to  be  sure ;  but  he 
had  some  narrow  escapes  of  penal  servitude,  and  once 
it  was  a  case  of  the  biter  bit.” 


R 


INCIDENT  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  MR.  GEORGE 

CROOKHILL 


“  One  day,”  the  registrar  continued,  “  Georgy  was 
ambling  out  of  Melchester  on  a  miserable  screw,  the 
fair  being  just  over,  when  he  saw  in  front  of  him  a 
fine-looking  young  farmer  riding  out  of  the  town  in 
the  same  direction.  He  was  mounted  on  a  good,  strong, 
handsome  animal,  worth  fifty  guineas  if  worth  a  crown. 
When  they  were  going  up  Bissett  Hill,  Georgy  made 
it  his  business  to  overtake  the  young  farmer.  They 
passed  the  time  o’  day  to  one  another  ;  Georgy  spoke 
of  the  state  of  the  roads,  and  jogged  alongside  the  well- 
mounted  stranger  in  very  friendly  conversation.  The 
farmer  had  not  been  inclined  to  say  much  to  Georgy 
at  first,  but  by  degrees  he  grew  quite  affable,  too — as 
friendly  as  Georgy  was  towards  him.  He  told  Crook- 
hill  that  he  had  been  doing  business  at  Melchester  fair, 
and  was  going  on  as  far  as  Shottsford-Forum  that  night, 
so  as  to  reach  Casterbridge  market  the  next  day.  When 
they  came  to  Woody ates  Inn  they  stopped  to  bait  their 
horses,  and  agreed  to  drink  together  ;  with  this  they 
got  more  friendly  than  ever,  and  on  they  went  again. 
Before  they  had  nearly  reached  Shottsford  it  came  on 
to  rain,  and  as  they  were  now  passing  through  the  vil¬ 
lage  of  Trantridge,  and  it  was  quite  dark,  Georgy  per¬ 
suaded  the  young  farmer  to  go  no  farther  that  night ; 
the  rain  would  most  likely  give  them  a  chill.  For  his 
part  he  had  heard  that  the  little  inn  here  was  com¬ 
fortable,  and  he  meant  to  stay.  At  last  the  young 


INCIDENT  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  MR.  CROOKHILL  255 


farmer  agreed  to  put  up  there  also  ;  and  they  dis¬ 
mounted  and  entered,  and  bad  a  good  supper  to¬ 
gether,  and  talked  over  their  affairs  like  men  who  had 
known  and  proved  each  other  a  long  time.  When  it 
was  the  hour  for  retiring  they  went  up -stairs  to  a 
double-bedded  room  which  Georgy  Crookhill  had 
asked  the  landlord  to  let  them  share,  so  sociable  were 
they. 

“  Before  they  fell  asleep  they  talked  across  the  room 
about  one  thing  and  another,  running  from  this  to 
that  till  the  conversation  turned  upon  disguises,  and 
changing  clothes  for  particular  ends.  The  farmer 
told  Georgy  that  he  had  often  heard  tales  of  people 
doing  it,  but  Crookhill  professed  to  be  very  ignorant 
of  all  such  tricks  ;  and  soon  the  young  farmer  sank 
into  slumber. 

“  Early  in  the  morning,  while  the  tall  young  fanner 
was  still  asleep  (I  tell  the  story  as  ’twas  told  me),  hon¬ 
est  Georgy  crept  out  of  his  bed  by  stealth,  and  dressed 
himself  in  the  farmer’s  clothes,  in  the  pockets  of  the  said 
clothes  being  the  farmer’s  money.  Now  though  Georgy 
particularly  wanted  the  farmer’s  nice  clothes  and  nice 
horse,  owing  to  a  little  transaction  at  the  fair  which 
made  it  desirable  that  he  should  not  be  too  easily 
recognized,  his  desires  had  their  bounds  ;  he  did  not 
wish  to  take  his  young  friend’s  money,  at  any  rate 
more  of  it  than  was  necessary  for  paying  his  bill. 
This  he  abstracted,  and  leaving  the  farmer’s  purse 
containing  the  rest  on  the  bedroom  table,  went  down¬ 
stairs.  The  inn  folks  had  not  particularly  noticed  the 
faces  of  their  customers,  and  the  one  or  two  who  were 
up  at  this  hour  had  no  thought  but  that  Georgy  was 
the  farmer  ;  so  when  he  had  paid  the  bill  very  lib¬ 
erally,  and  said  he  must  be  off,  no  objection  was  made 
to  his  getting  the  farmer’s  horse  saddled  for  himself; 
and  he  rode  away  upon  it  as  if  it  were  his  own. 


256 


life’s  little  ironies 


“About  half  an  hour  after  the  young  farmer  awoke, 
and  looking  across  the  room  saw  that  his  friend  Georgy 
had  gone  away  in  clothes  which  didn’t  belong  to  him, 
and  had  kindly  left  for  himself  the  seedy  ones  worn 
by  Georgy.  At  this  he  sat  up  in  a  deep  thought 
for  some  time,  instead  of  hastening  to  give  an  alarm. 
‘The  money,  the  money  is  gone,’ he  said  to  himself, 
‘and  that’s  bad.  But  so  are  the  clothes.’ 

“  He  then  looked  upon  the  table  and  saw  that  the 
money,  or  most  of  it,  had  been  left  behind. 

Ha,  ha,  ha  !’  he  cried,  and  began  to  dance  about 
the  room.  ‘  Ha,  ha,  ha  !’  he  said  again,  and  made 
beautiful  smiles  to  himself  in  the  shaving-glass  and  in 
the  brass  candlestick  ;  and  then  swung  about  his  arms 
for  all  the  world  as  if  he  were  going  through  the 
sword  exercise. 

“  When  he  had  dressed  himself  in  Georgy’s  clothes 
and  gone  down-stairs,  he  did  not  seem  to  mind  at  all 
that  they  took  him  for  the  other ;  and  even  when  he 
saw  that  he  had  been  left  a  bad  horse  for  a  good  one, 
he  was  not  inclined  to  cry  out.  They  told  him  his 
friend  had  paid  the  bill,  at  which  he  seemed  much 
pleased,  and  without  waiting  for  breakfast  he  mounted 
Georgy’s  horse  and  rode  away  likewise,  choosing  the 
nearest  by-lane  in  preference  to  the  high-road,  without 
knowing  that  Georgy  had  chosen  that  by-lane  also. 

“He  had  not  trotted  more  than  two  miles  in  the 
personal  character  of  Georgy  Crookhill  when,  sudden¬ 
ly  rounding  a  bend  that  the  lane  made  thereabout,  he 
came  upon  a  man  struggling  in  the  hands  of  two  vil¬ 
lage  constables.  It  was  his  friend  Georgy,  the  bor¬ 
rower  of  his  clothes  and  horse.  But  so  far  was  the 
young  farmer  from  showing  any  alacrity  in  rushing 
forward  to  claim  his  property  that  he  would  have 
turned  the  poor  beast  he  rode  into  the  wood  adjoining, 
if  he  had  not  been  already  perceived. 


INCIDENT  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  MB.  CBOOKHILL  257 


44  4  Help,  help,  help  !’  cried  the  constables.  ‘Assist¬ 
ance  in  the  name  of  the  Crown  !’ 

44  The  young  farmer  could  do  nothing  hut  ride  for¬ 
ward.  4  What’s  the  matter  ?’  he  inquired,  as  coolly  as 
he  could. 

44  4  A  deserter — a  deserter  !’  said  they.  4  One  who’s 
to  be  tried  by  court-martial  and  shot  without  parley. 
He  deserted  from  the  Dragoons  at  Cheltenham  some 
days  ago,  and  was  tracked  ;  but  the  search-party  can’t 
find  him  anywhere,  and  we  told  ’em  if  we  met  him 
we’d  hand  him  on  to  ’em  forthwith.  The  day  after 
he  left  the  barracks  the  rascal  met  a  respectable  farmer 
and  made  him  drunk  at  an  inn,  and  told  him  what  a 
fine  soldier  he  would  make,  and  coaxed  him  to  change 
clothes,  to  see  how  well  a  military  uniform  would  be¬ 
come  him.  This  the  simple  farmer  did ;  when  our 
deserter  said  that  for  a  joke  he  would  leave  the  room 
and  go  to  the  landlady,  to  see  if  she  would  know  him 
in  that  dress.  He  never  came  back,  and  Farmer  Jol- 
lice  found  himself  in  soldier’s  clothes,  the  money  in 
his  pockets  gone,  and,  when  he  got  to  the  stable,  his 
horse  gone  too.’ 

44  4  A  scoundrel  !’  says  the  young  man  in  Georgy’s 
clothes.  4  And  is  this  the  wretched  caitiff?’  (pointing 
to  Georgy). 

44  4  No,  no  !’  cries  Georgy,  as  innocent  as  a  babe  of 

this  matter  of  the  soldier’s  desertion.  4  He’s  the  man! 

He  was  wearing  Farmer  Jollice’s  suit  o’  clothes,  and 

he  slept  in  the  same  room  wi’  me,  and  brought  up  the 

subject  of  changing  clothes,  which  put  it  into  my 

head  to  dress  mvself  in  his  suit  before  he  was  awake. 

%/ 

He’s  got  on  mine  !’ 

44  4  D’ye  hear  the  villain  ?’  groans  the  tall  young  man 
to  the  constables.  ‘Trying  to  get  out  of  his  crime 
by  charging  the  first  innocent  man  with  it  that  he 
sees  !  No,  master  soldier — that  won’t  do  !’ 

17 


258 


life’s  utile  iboniks 


“ ‘  No,  no  !  That  won’t  do  !’  the  constables  chimed 
in.  ‘To  have  the  impudence  to  say  such  as  that, 
when  we  caught  him  in  the  act  almost !  But,  thank 
God,  we’ve  got  the  handcuffs  on  him  at  last.’ 

“‘We  have,  thank  God,’  said  the  tall  young  man. 
‘Well,  I  must  move  on.  Good-luck  to  ye  with  your 
prisoner  !’  And  off  he  went  as  fast  as  his  poor  jade 
would  carry  him. 

“  The  constables  then,  with  Georgy  handcuffed  be¬ 
tween  ’em,  and  leading  the  horse,  marched  off  in  the 
other  direction,  towards  the  village  where  they  had 
been  accosted  by  the  escort  of  soldiers  sent  to  bring 
the  deserter  back,  Georgy  groaning  :  ‘  I  shall  be  shot, 
I  shall  be  shot !’  They  had  not  gone  more  than  a 
mile  before  they  met  them. 

“  ‘  Hoi,  there  !’  says  the  head  constable. 

“  ‘  Hoi,  yerself  !’  says  the  corporal  in  charge. 

“  ‘We’ve  got  your  man,’  says  the  constable. 

“‘Where?’  says  the  corporal. 

“  ‘  Here,  between  us,’  said  the  constable.  ‘  Only  you 
don’t  recognize  him  out  o’  uniform.’ 

“  The  corporal  looked  at  Georgy  hard  enough ;  then 
shook  his  head  and  said  he  was  not  the  absconder. 

“  ‘  But  the  absconder  changed  clothes  with  Farmer 
Jollice,  and  took  his  horse  ;  and  this  man  has  ’em, 
d’ye  see  !’ 

“  ‘  ’Tis  not  our  man,’  said  the  soldiers.  ‘  He’s  a  tall 
young  fellow  with  a  mole  on  his  right  cheek,  and  a 
military  bearing,  which  this  man  decidedly  has  not.’ 

‘“I  told  the  servants  of  the  Crown  that  ’twas  the 
other  !’  pleaded  Georgy.  ‘  But  they  wouldn’t  believe 
me.’ 

“  And  so  it  became  clear  that  the  missing  dragoon 
was  the  tall  young  farmer,  and  not  Georgy  Crookhill 
— a  fact  which  Farmer  Jollice  himself  corroborated 
when  he  arrived  on  the  scene.  As  Georgy  had  only 


INCIDENT  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  MR.  CROOKHILL  259 


robbed  the  robber,  his  sentence  was  comparatively 
light.  The  deserter  from  the  Dragoons  was  never 
traced;  his  double  shift  of  clothing  having  been  of 
the  greatest  advantage  to  him  in  getting  off,  though 
he  left  Georgy’s  horse  behind  him  a  few  miles  ahead, 
having  found  the  poor  creature  more  hinderance  than 
aid.” 

The  man  from  abroad  seemed  to  be  less  interested 
in  the  questionable  characters  of  Longpuddle  and  their 
strange  adventures  than  in  the  ordinary  inhabitants 
and  the  ordinary  events,  though  his  local  fellow-trav¬ 
ellers  preferred  the  former  as  subjects  of  discussion. 
He  now  for  the  first  time  asked  concerning  young 
persons  of  the  opposite  sex — or  rather  those  who  had 
been  young  when  he  left  his  native  land.  His  inform¬ 
ants,  adhering  to  their  own  opinion  that  the  remark¬ 
able  was  better  worth  telling  than  the  ordinary,  would 
not  allow  him  to  dwell  upon  the  simple  chronicles  of 
those  who  had  merely  come  and  gone.  They  asked 
him  if  he  remembered  Hetty  Sargent. 

“  Hetty  Sargent — I  do,  just  remember  her.  She  was 
a  young  woman  living  with  her  uncle  when  I  left,  if 
my  childish  recollection  may  be  trusted.” 

“  That  was  the  maid.  She  was  a  oneyer,  if  you  like, 
sir.  Hot  any  harm  in  her,  you  know,  but  up  to  every¬ 
thing.  You  ought  to  hear  how  she  got  the  copyhold 
of  her  house  extended.  Oughtn’t  he,  Mr.  Day?” 

“  He  ought,”  replied  the  world-ignored  old  painter. 

“  Tell  him,  Mr.  Day.  Hobody  can  do  it  better  than 
you,  and  you  know  the  legal  part  better  than  some 
of  us.” 

Day  apologized,  and  began : 


NETTY  SARGENT’S  COPYHOLD 


“  She  continued  to  live  with  her  uncle,  in  the  lonely 
house  by  the  copse,  just  as  at  the  time  you  knew  her; 
a  tall,  spry  young  woman.  Ah,  how  well  one  can  re¬ 
member  her  black  hair  and  dancing  eyes  at  that  time, 
and  her  sly  way  of  screwing  up  her  mouth  when  she 
meant  to  tease  ye!  Well,  she  was  hardly  out  of  short 
frocks  before  the  chaps  were  after  her,  and  by  long 
and  by  late  she  was  courted  by  a  young  man  whom 
perhaps  you  did  not  know — Jasper  Cliff  was  his  name 
— and,  though  she  might  have  had  many  a  better  fel¬ 
low,  he  so  greatly  took  her  fancy  that  ’twas  Jasper  or 
nobody  for  her.  He  was  a  selfish  customer,  always 
thinking  less  of  what  he  was  going  to  do  than  of  what 
he  was  going  to  gain  by  his  doings.  Jasper’s  eyes 
might  have  been  fixed  upon  Netty,  but  his  mind  was 
upon  her  uncle’s  house;  though  he  was  fond  of  her  in 
his  way — I  admit  that. 

“This  house,  built  by  her  great-great-grandfather, 
with  its  garden  and  little  field,  was  copyhold — granted 
upon  lives  in  the  old  way,  and  had  been  so  granted 
for  generations.  Her  uncle’s  was  the  last  life  upon 
the  property,  so  that  at  his  death,  if  there  was  no  ad¬ 
mittance  of  new  lives,  it  would  all  fall  into  the  hands 
of  the  lord  of  the  manor.  But  ’twas  easy  to  admit — 
a  slight  ‘fine,’  as  ’twas  called,  of  a  few  pounds,  was 
enough  to  entitle  him  to  a  new  deed  o’  grant  by  the 
custom  of  the  manor ;  and  the  lord  could  not  hin¬ 
der  it. 

“Now,  there  could  be  no  better  provision  for  his 


NETTY  SAEGENT’s  COPYHOLD 


261 


niece  and  only  relative  than  a  sure  house  over  her 
head,  and  Netty’s  uncle  should  have  seen  to  the  re¬ 
newal  in  time,  owing  to  the  peculiar  custom  of  forfeit¬ 
ure  by  the  dropping  of  the  last  life  before  the  new 
fine  was  paid  ;  for  the  squire  was  very  anxious  to  get 
hold  of  the  house  and  land  ;  and  every  Sunday  when 
the  old  man  came  into  the  church  and  passed  the 
squire’s  pew,  the  squire  would  say,  ‘A  little  weaker 
in  his  knees,  a  little  crookeder  in  his  back — and  the 
readmittance  not  applied  for,  ha  !  ha  !  I  shall  be  able 
to  make  a  complete  clearing  of  that  corner  of  the 
manor  some  day  !’ 

“’Twas  extraordinary,  now  we  look  back  upon  it, 
that  old  Sargent  should  have  been  so  dilatory  ;  yet 
some  people  are  like  it,  and  he  put  off  calling  at  the 
squire’s  agent’s  office  with  the  fine  week  after  week, 
saying  to  himself,  ‘  I  shall  have  more  time  next  mar¬ 
ket-day  than  I  have  now.’  One  unfortunate  hinderance 
was  that  he  didn’t  very  well  like  Jasper  Cliff,  and  as 
Jasper  kept  urging  Netty,  and  Netty  on  that  account 
kept  urging  her  uncle,  the  old  man  was  inclined  to 
postpone  the  reliveing  as  long  as  he  could,  to  spite  the 
selfish  young  lover.  At  last  old  Mr.  Sargent  fell  ill, 
and  then  Jasper  could  bear  it  no  longer  :  he  produced 
the  fine  money  himself,  and  handed  it  to  Netty,  and 
spoke  to  her  plainly. 

“  ‘  You  and  your  uncle  ought  to  know  better.  You 
should  press  him  more.  There’s  the  money.  If  you 
let  the  house  and  ground  slip  between  ye,  I  won’t 
marry  ;  hang  me  if  I  will !  For  folks  won’t  deserve 
a  husband  that  can  do  such  things.’ 

“The  worried  girl  took  the  money  and  went  home, 
and  told  her  uncle  that  if  was  no  house  no  husband 
for  her.  Old  Mr.  Sargent  pooh-poohed  the  money,  for 
the  amount  was  not  worth  consideration,  but  he  did 
now  bestir  himself,  for  he  saw  she  was  bent  upon  mar- 


262 


life’s  little  ironies 


rying  Jasper,  and  be  did  not  wish  to  make  her  unhap¬ 
py,  since  she  was  so  determined.  It  was  much  to  the 
squire’s  annoyance  that  he  found  Sargent  had  moved 
in  the  matter  at  last ;  but  he  could  not  gainsay  it, 
and  the  documents  were  prepared  (for  on  this  manor 
the  copyholders  had  writings  with  their  holdings, 
though  on  some  manors  they  had  none).  Old  Sargent 
being  now  too  feeble  to  go  to  the  agent’s  house,  the 
deed  was  to  be  brought  to  his  house  signed,  and  hand¬ 
ed  over  as  a  receipt  for  the  money ;  the  counterpart 
to  be  signed  by  Sargent,  and  sent  back  to  the  squire. 

“  The  agent  had  promised  to  call  on  old  Sargent  for 
this  purpose  at  five  o’clock,  and  Netty  put  the  money 
into  her  desk  to  have  it  close  at  hand.  While  doing 
this  she  heard  a  slight  cry  from  her  uncle,  and  turn¬ 
ing  round,  saw  that  he  had  fallen  forward  in  his  chair. 
She  went  and  lifted  him,  but  he  was  unconscious,  and 
unconscious  he  remained.  Neither  medicine  nor  stim¬ 
ulants  would  bring  him  to  himself.  She  had  been  told 
that  he  might  possibly  go  off  in  that  way,  and  it  seemed 
as  if  the  end  had  come.  Before  she  had  started  for  a 
doctor  his  face  and  extremities  grew  quite  cold  and 
white,  and  she  saw  that  help  would  be  useless.  He 
was  stone-dead. 

“  Netty’s  situation  rose  upon  her  distracted  mind  in 
all  its  seriousness.  The  house,  garden,  and  field  were 
lost — by  a  few  hours — and  with  them  a  home  for  her¬ 
self  and  her  lover.  She  would  not  think  so  meanly  of 
Jasper  as  to  suppose  that  he  would  adhere  to  the  reso¬ 
lution  declared  in  a  moment  of  impatience  ;  but  she 
trembled,  nevertheless.  Why  could  not  her  uncle  have 
lived  a  couple  of  hours  longer,  since  he  had  lived  so 
long  ?  It  was  now  past  three  o’clock ;  at  five  the  agent 
was  to  call,  and,  if  all  had  gone  well,  by  ten  minutes 
past  five  the  house  and  holding  would  have  been  se¬ 
curely  hers  for  her  own  and  Jasper’s  lives,  these  being 


NETTY  SABGENT’s  COPYHOLD 


368 


two  of  the  three  proposed  to  be  added  by  paying  the 
fine.  How  that  wretched  old  squire  would  rejoice  at 
getting  the  little  tenancy  into  his  hands !  He  did  not 
really  require  it,  but  constitutionally  hated  these  tiny 
copyholds  and  leaseholds  and  freeholds,  which  made 
islands  of  independence  in  the  fair,  smooth  ocean  of 
his  estates. 

“  Then  an  idea  struck  into  the  head  of  Netty  how 
to  accomplish  her  object  in  spite  of  her  uncle’s  negli¬ 
gence.  It  was  a  dull  December  afternoon,  and  the 
first  step  in  her  scheme — so  the  story  goes,  and  I  see 
no  reason  to  doubt  it — ” 

“  ’Tis  true  as  the  light,”  affirmed  Christopher  Twink. 
“I  was  just  passing  by.” 

“The  first  step  in  her  scheme  was  to  fasten  the 
outer  door,  to  make  sure  of  not  being  interrupted. 
Then  she  set  to  work  by  placing  her  uncle’s  small, 
heavy  oak  table  before  the  fire;  then  she  went  to  her 
uncle’s  corpse,  sitting  in  the  chair  as  he  had  died — a 
stuffed  arm-chair,  on  castors,  and  rather  high  in  the 
seat,  so  it  was  told  me — and  wheeled  the  chair,  uncle 
and  all,  to  the  table,  placing  him  with  his  back  tow¬ 
ards  the  window,  in  the  attitude  of  bending  over  the 
said  oak  table,  which  I  knew  as  a  boy  as  well  as  I  know 
any  piece  of  furniture  in  my  own  house.  On  the  table 
she  laid  the  large  family  Bible  open  before  him,  and 
placed  his  forefinger  on  the  page;  and  then  she  opened 
his  eyelids  a  bit,  and  put  on  him  his  spectacles,  so  that 
from  behind  he  appeared  for  all  the  world  as  if  he 
were  reading  the  Scriptures.  Then  she  unfastened 
the  door  and  sat  down,  and  when  it  grew  dark  she 
lit  a  candle,  and  put  it  on  the  table  beside  her  uncle’s 
book. 

“  Folk  may  well  guess  how  the  time  passed  with  her 
till  the  agent  came,  and  how,  when  his  knock  sounded 
upon  the  door,  she  nearly  started  out  of  her  skin — at 


264 


life’s  little  ironies 


least,  that’s  as  it  was  told  me.  Netty  promptly  went 
to  the  door. 

“  ‘I  am  sorry,  sir,’  she  says,  under  her  breath  ;  ‘my 
uncle  is  not  so  well  to-night,  and  I’m  afraid  he  can’t 
see  you.’ 

H’m! — that’s  a  pretty  tale,’  says  the  steward.  ‘So 
I’ve  come  all  this  way  about  this  trumpery  little  job 
for  nothin !’ 

“‘Oh  no,  sir — I  hope  not,’  says  Netty.  ‘I  suppose 
the  business  of  granting  the  new  deed  can  be  done  just 
the  same  ?’ 

“  ‘  Done  ?  Certainly  not.  He  must  pay  the  renewal 
money,  and  sign  the  parchment  in  my  presence.’ 

“  She  looked  dubious.  ‘Uncle  is  so  dreadful  nervous 
about  law  business,’  says  she,  ‘  that,  as  you  know,  he’s 
put  it  off  and  put  it  off  for  years  ;  and  now  to-day  real¬ 
ly  I’ve  feared  it  would  verily  drive  him  out  of  his  mind. 
His  poor  three  teeth  quite  chattered  when  I  said  to  him 
that  you  would  be  here  soon  with  the  parchment  writ¬ 
ing.  He  always  was  afraid  of  agents,  and  folks  that 
come  for  rent,  and  such  like.’ 

“‘Poor  old  fellow — I’m  sorry  for  him.  Well,  the 
thing  can’t  be  done  unless  I  see  him  and  witness  his 
signature.’ 

“  ‘  Suppose,  sir,  that  you  see  him  sign,  and  he  don’t 
see  you  looking  at  him  ?  I’d  soothe  his  nerves  by 
saying  you  weren’t  strict  about  the  form  of  witness¬ 
ing,  and  didn’t  wish  to  come  in.  So  that  it  was  done 
in  your  bare  presence  it  would  be  sufficient,  would  it 
not  ?  As  he’s  such  an  old,  shrinking,  shivering  man,  it 
would  be  a  great  considerateness  on  your  part  if  that 
would  do.’ 

“‘In  my  bare  presence  would  do,  of  course — that’s 
all  I  come  for.  But  how  can  I  be  a  witness  without 
his  seeing  me  ?* 

“‘Why,  in  this  way,  sir;  if  you’ll  oblige  me  by  just 


netty  sargent’s  copyhold 


865 


stepping  here.’  She  conducted  him  a  few  yards  to  the 
left,  till  they  were  opposite  the  parlor  window.  The 
blind  had  been  left  up  purposely,  and  the  candle-light 
shone  out  upon  the  garden  bushes.  Within  the  agent 
could  see,  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  the  back  and 
side  of  the  old  man’s  head,  and  his  shoulders  and  arm, 
sitting  with  the  book  and  candle  before  him,  and  his 
spectacles  on  his  nose,  as  she  had  placed  him. 

“  ‘He’s  reading  his  Bible,  as  you  see,  sir,’  she  says, 
quite  in  her  meekest  way. 

“  ‘  Yes.  I  thought  he  was  a  careless  sort  of  man  in 
matters  of  religion.’ 

“‘He  always  was  fond  of  his  Bible,’  Netty  assured 
him.  ‘Though  I  think  he’s  nodding  over  it  just  at 
this  moment.  However,  that’s  natural  in  an  old  man, 
and  unwell.  Now  you  could  stand  here  and  see  him 
sign,  couldn’t  you,  sir,  as  he’s  such  an  invalid  ?’ 

‘“Very  well,’  said  the  agent,  lighting  a  cigar. 
‘You  have  ready  by  you  the  merely  nominal  sum 
you’ll  have  to  pay  for  the  admittance,  of  course  ?’ 

“  ‘  Yes,’  said  Netty.  ‘  I’ll  bring  it  out.’  She  fetched 
the  cash,  wrapped  in  paper,  and  handed  it  to  him,  and 
when  he  had  counted  it  the  steward  took  from  his 
breast-pocket  the  precious  parchments  and  gave  one 
to  her  to  be  signed. 

“‘Uncle’s  hand  is  a  little  paralyzed,’  she  said. 

‘  And  what  with  his  being  half  asleep,  too,  really  I 
don’t  know  what  sort  of  a  signature  he’ll  be  able  to 
make.’ 

“‘Doesn’t  matter,  so  that  he  signs.’ 

“  ‘  Might  I  hold  his  hand  ?’ 

“  ‘  Aye,  hold  his  hand,  my  young  woman — that  will 
be  near  enough.’ 

“Netty  re-entered  the  house,  and  the  agent  contin¬ 
ued  smoking  outside  the  window.  Now  came  the 
ticklish  part  of  Netty’s  performance.  The  steward 


266 


life’s  little  ironies 


saw  her  put  the  inkhorn — 4  horn,’  says  I,  in  my  old- 
fashioned  way — the  inkstand,  before  her  uncle,  and 
touch  his  elbow  as  if  to  arouse  him,  and  speak  to  him, 
and  spread  out  the  deed;  when  she  had  pointed  to 
show  him  where  to  sign  she  dipped  the  pen  and  put  it 
into  his  hand.  To  hold  his  hand  she  artfully  stepped 
behind  him,  so  that  the  agent  could  only  see  a  little 
bit  of  his  head  and  the  hand  she  held;  but  he  saw  the 
old  man’s  hand  trace  his  name  on  the  document.  As 
soon  as  ’twas  done  she  came  out  to  the  steward  with 
the  parchment  in  her  hand,  and  the  steward  signed  as 
witness  by  the  light  from  the  parlor  window.  Then 
he  gave  her  the  deed  signed  by  the  squire,  and  left; 
and  next  morning  Netty  told  the  neighbors  that  her 
uncle  was  dead  in  his  bed.” 

“  She  must  have  undressed  him  and  put  him  there.” 

“She  must.  Oh,  that  girl  had  a  nerve,  I  can  tell 
ye!  Well,  to  cut  a  long  story  short,  that’s  how  she 
got  back  the  house  and  field  that  were,  strictly  speak¬ 
ing,  gone  from  her;  and  by  getting  them,  got  her  a 
husband.  When  the  old  squire  was  dead,  and  his 
son  came  into  the  property,  what  Netty  had  done  be¬ 
gan  to  be  whispered  about,  for  she  had  told  a  friend 
or  two.  But  Netty  was  a  pretty  young  woman,  and 
the  squire’s  son  was  a  pretty  young  man  at  that  time, 
and  wider-minded  than  his  father,  having  no  objection 
to  little  holdings;  and  he  never  took  any  proceedings 
against  her.” 

There  was  now  a  lull  in  the  discourse,  and  soon  the 
van  descended  the  hill  leading  into  the  long  straggling 
village.  When  the  houses  were  reached  the  passen¬ 
gers  dropped  off  one  by  one,  each  at  his  or  her  own 
door.  Arrived  at  the  inn,  the  returned  emigrant  se¬ 
cured  a  bed,  and,  having  eaten  a  light  meal,  sallied 
forth  upon  the  scene  he  had  known  so  well  in  his  early 


netty  sargent’s  copyhold  267 

days.  Though  flooded  with  the  light  of  the  rising 
moon,  none  of  the  objects  wore  the  attractiveness  in 
this  their  real  presentation  that  had  ever  accompanied 
their  images  in  the  field  of  his  imagination  when  he 
was  more  than  two  thousand  miles  removed  from  them. 
The  peculiar  charm  attaching  to  an  old  village  in  an 
old  country,  as  seen  by  the  eyes  of  an  absolute  for¬ 
eigner,  was  lowered  in  his  case  by  magnified  expecta¬ 
tions  from  infantine  memories.  He  walked  on,  look¬ 
ing  at  this  chimney  and  that  old  wall,  till  he  came  to 
the  church-yard,  which  he  entered. 

The  headstones,  whitened  by  the  moon,  were  easily 
decipherable  ;  and  now  for  the  first  time  Lackland  be¬ 
gan  to  feel  himself  amid  the  village  community  that 
he  had  left  behind  him  five-and-thirty  years  before. 
Here,  besides  the  Sallets,  the  Darths,  the  Pawdes,  the 
Privetts,  the  Sargents,  and  others  of  whom  he  had 
just  heard,  were  names  he  remembered  even  better 
than  those :  the  Jickses,  and  the  Crosses,  and  the 
Knights,  and  the  Olds.  Doubtless  representatives  of 
these  families,  or  some  or  tnem,  were  yet  among  the 
living ;  but  to  him  they  would  all  be  as  strangers. 
Far  from  finding  his  heart  ready  supplied  with  roots 
and  tendrils  here,  he  perceived  that  in  returning  to 
this  spot  it  would  be  incumbent  upon  him  to  re-es¬ 
tablish  himself  from  the  beginning,precisely  as  though 
he  had  never  known  the  place  nor  it  him.  Time  had 
not  condescended  to  wait  his  pleasure,  nor  local  life 
his  greeting. 

The  figure  of  Mr.  Lackland  was  seen  at  the  inn,  and 
in  the  village  street,  and  in  the  fields  and  lanes  about 
Upper  Longpuddle  for  a  few  days  after  his  arrival, 
and  then,  ghost-like,  it  silently  disappeared.  He  had 
told  some  of  the  villagers  that  his  immediate  purpose 
in  coming  had  been  fulfilled  by  a  sight  of  the  place, 
and  by  conversation  with  its  inhabitants ;  but  that  his 


268 


life’s  little  ironies 


ulterior  purpose — of  coming  to  spend  his  latter  days 
among  them — would  probably  never  be  carried  out.  It 
is  now  a  dozen  or  fifteen  years  since  his  visit  was  paid, 
and  his  face  has  not  again  been  seen. 

March,  1891. 


THE  END 


